The Final Problem
by Sky Writes
Summary: Dying was the easy part. Dying wasn't the final problem. The final problem is the mastermind behind the game, an enemy from Sherlock's past: Sebastian Moran.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **The Final Problem

**Summary: **Dying was the easy part. Dying wasn't the final problem. The final problem is the mastermind behind the game, an enemy from Sherlock's past: Sebastian Moran. Taking down Moriarty's crew becomes a fight for survival while back home Sherlock's friends fight to move forward with their lives.

**Author's Note: **I've been working on this story for a good two months now. I've really enjoyed reading through all the post-Reichenbach fics, and I really wanted to write one of my own. This story will be told from multiple points of view, and I have quite a bit of this written. I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoy writing it!

**Special Thanks:** To my amazing beta, equal_to_k from Livejournal!

**Rating: **T for violence, mentions of suicide, mentions of drug use

**Spoilers:** for the entire show, and later on for "The Empty House" by Doyle

**Disclaimer:** The world of Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me. The title comes from Doyle's story.

* * *

><p>Mycroft Holmes let out a deep sigh as he poured himself a drink. His house was completely silent, though why wouldn't it be, as alone as he was? Outside the darkness stood still, and he felt rather like he was trapped in a morbid painting. His brother, dead. He shook his head. It was still hard to believe, and it was even harder to say those words out loud, as he had to when he spoke with his mother hours earlier. For once he was relieved to come home to the emptiness of his private life. He wanted nothing more than to sit, alone, and work through this by himself.<p>

Suicide was just so unlike his brother. His brother was so obnoxious, so _proud_. He was perfectly satisfied with who he was and what had become of his life. All he needed was his work, and he was damn good at his job. Sherlock could have proven himself innocent, easily. Suicide just didn't make sense.

And yet here he was, left with the duties to make funeral arrangements for the brother he felt he hardly knew. Left to deal with family and friends. Left to pick up the nasty pieces remaining from Sherlock's game with Moriarty. The next week was going to be hell. The next few years were going to be hell. As the news became more and more real, Mycroft realized that his own life had changed when his brother jumped of that building that afternoon. He was not one to show emotions; he was not one to let others know his weakness, but it would always be Sherlock who kept him awake with worry at night. Now he would have to spend the rest of his days and nights wondering _what if_?

_What if _he had taken his brother more seriously? Not that Sherlock would have liked that. Not the Sherlock he knew, anyway; but apparently he had seriously misjudged his little brother.

_What if _he hadn't told Moriarty Sherlock's story? With that kind of ammunition Sherlock would have known that the next few months wouldn't be easy, what with the media storm that would have engulfed him and the police. But a few months of hiding out and staying quiet made more sense than jumping off the roof of St. Bartholomew's.

He should have known better than to get his brother mixed in with the police in the first place. Sherlock wasn't a trained officer. He was never one to follow rules, and he certainly wasn't one to listen to an authority figure. Placing him in such a dangerous job was just asking for trouble.

Mycroft turned towards the living room, eyes closed for a moment as he let out a deep sigh before heading toward the sofa.

When he opened his eyes, he dropped his drink. The glass shattered on the hardwood floor; the drink tumbled over the tips of his shoelaces.

His empty house wasn't so empty tonight.

Tonight, Sherlock Holmes sat on his sofa, one side of his face coated in dry blood and his arm wrapped in bandages. His brother's hands were shaking like mad. His clothes were torn, eyes were bloodshot, and his hair was a sweaty, bloody, mess.

Nevertheless, Sherlock Holmes was able to crack a smile.

"I've never seen you so speechless," his brother teased.

Mycroft felt faint. He actually felt like he might collapse. Perhaps the day had just been too hard. Perhaps it was the lack of sleep he had been getting lately. Mycroft closed his eyes, desperately hoping that he wasn't going mad.

When he opened his eyes to see that his brother standing inches away from him, Mycroft didn't know what to think. Swallowing, he attempted to regain composure, and cooly replied:

"Well Sherlock, I'm a little in shock as I just had to explain to mother that her youngest son is dead."

"And how did she take it?" Sherlock didn't seem sincerely concerned; Mycroft wanted to punch him in the face.

"Not very well, I'm afraid."

He turned away, certain that he had officially gone mad. His hands trembled ever so slightly as he reached for another drink, but he froze when he felt a cold, clammy, hand grasp his wrist.

"There's no time for self-pity," Sherlock hissed, "snap out of, Mycroft. You know I would never be one for suicide."

"Well that's the thing about suicide, isn't it?" Mycroft said slowly, still refusing to look at his brother. "You never expect someone to follow through with it. I heard you left a nice note for John Watson. That was very sweet of you, Sherlock, to traumatize your friend like that. He's completely in shock."

And now he was reasoning with a hallucination. Sherlock forced him to spin around and face him, and his brother slapped him across the face.

"_Focus, Mycroft!_" Sherlock said. Mycroft took a few deep breaths as he waited for Sherlock to continue. At last Sherlock admitted: "I need your help."

Something snapped inside him, either the fear of going mad or the anger that this was all real, that Sherlock really was this cruel. He grabbed Sherlock by the collar of his coat, and couldn't help but to flashback to the many fights they had as children as he replied:

"I just spent the afternoon sitting with mother as she grieved the loss of her son! I watched as a detective took a statement from John Watson, who was too in shock to even speak. A double suicide! The entire city is _stunned_, Sherlock! People don't know what to think! And here you are, with that same smug grin, like you have the entire world figured out. Well dear brother, let me tell you, you know _nothing_. I'm curious to see how you've worked this one out, because your friends aren't going to be too quick to forgive you for this one."

"My friends were in mortal danger!" Sherlock exclaimed. Mycroft let him go so that he could speak. He tried to avoid how injured Sherlock was, determined not to feel sorry for him. "It was their lives or mine."

"Why didn't you come to me for help sooner?" Mycroft said. "Just trying to play with my mind, are you Sherlock?"

"You would have messed everything up!" Sherlock shot. "You would have tried to orchestrate the entire thing. You would have ruined it like you ruin everything."

Mycroft had to resist the urge to start another fight. Instead he replied, through impatient, gritted, teeth:

"And yet here you are, standing in my sitting room, asking for help."

"You would have tried to stop me," Sherlock said, ignoring him.

"Yes, I would have," Mycroft admitted, "forgive me if I'm not too keen on playing tricks on family and friends about fake suicides."

"You don't have friends."

Yes, he had to try very hard not to hit him.

"What do you need?" He said.

"Passports," Sherlock replied, "identities. A phone. Currency. And Aspirin if you would happen to have any."

* * *

><p>All of those things were easily obtained, and Sherlock would be ready to head to Cardiff with Molly Hooper, whose brother was a medical doctor, the next day.<p>

"Is this Molly Hooper planning on running away with you?" Mycroft asked as he changed Sherlock's bandages. Sherlock winced when he tugged on his arm too tightly.

"No," Sherlock said through the pain, "but she is going to do some starting over of her own."

"How sweet," Mycroft said.

When he finished he handed Sherlock an envelope.

"Three identities," Mycroft said, "if you need more, you write me. You don't call. But here's an emergency number, just in case. But only for emergencies. Not because you ran out of money for fish and chips. I think your arm is broken, by the way."

"What?"

Sherlock looked down at his hand. Thick black-blue bruises covered his fingers, and with the bandages off his wrist had looked even worse. His face was dotted with soft bruises as well, and there was a thick scar on his forehead.

"Don't pretend," Mycroft said, "you can hardly move it. You'll need a cast. X-rays. That's if you aren't stupid and just run off. Do yourself a favor and recover first. No use running around Europe with a mangled hand. You'll draw attention to yourself. Keep quiet; take care of yourself."

His brother examined his injured arm, as though accepting that Mycroft was right. Nevertheless he replied, with a tone of amusement:

"If I'm not mistaken, Mycroft, you sound concerned."

"You are the same idiot who threw himself off a building twenty-four hours ago."

They both jumped when the doorbell suddenly rang. Unsure of what to do, they stared at each other for a moment, both expecting the other to have a plan. When Sherlock remained silent, Mycroft sighed.

"I won't let them in," he said.

He left Sherlock on the couch to admire his injuries. When Mycroft opened the door the cool wind was a welcome change from the stiff air of his sitting room, where he had spent the night going over the details of his brother's plans.

Mycroft opened his mouth to announce an excuse for the stranger to go away, but he stopped when he saw it was Molly Hooper instead. She smiled at him, unintimidated.

"I'm here for Sherlock," she explained.

He stared at her for a moment, unsure of what to say; he knew it was the reality of the plan that was just settling in. At last he invited her inside, ushering her to the sitting room where Sherlock was on a laptop.

"Scotland is so boring," Sherlock said, without looking up, "could you have not found somewhere more interesting that I could be from?"

"Yes," Mycroft replied, "I'm sure you would like Texas a lot better. Your friend is here."

Sherlock looked up, startled to see Molly. He looked quite like a teenager who had unexpectingly ran into the girl of his dreams. Mycroft couldn't help but to smirk. Molly offered Sherlock a soft, reassuring, smile, and handed him a duffle bag.

"What's your name supposed to be, then?" She asked.

"David Williams," Sherlock said, with a rather impressive Scottish accent. "I have a degree in ancient history from the University of Edinburgh. What does one do with a degree in ancient history in Scotland?"

Molly giggled, and Mycroft had to roll his eyes. Yes, he certainly felt like he was helping two teenagers prepare for their first date.

"You colored your hair," Sherlock observed, "it's...nice."

Molly tucked a freshly-dyed strand of blonde hair behind her ear as her cheeks turned red in embarrassment.

"I figured it couldn't hurt," Molly said, "not that anyone will care about the fact that Molly Hooper from London has suddenly moved away. I just wanted a fresh start, you know."

Sherlock smiled at her.

"You can do so much better than London, Molly."

If he wasn't mistaken, his brother might actually have feelings for this girl, whether Sherlock would ever admit this or not. Then again, he was probably just being nice, as Molly was about to change her entire life for his sake.

The two immediately looked away from each other, making Mycroft feel even more awkward, as he didn't know what to do with them.

"How's your arm?" Molly said, finally breaking the silence. She stepped forward, and Sherlock let her place his arm in her hand. "How's the concussion?"

"It's fine," Sherlock said. Mycroft knew he was lying.

"I kept him up all night," Mycroft said, "he's fine now. Make sure he sleeps on the way to Cardiff."

Molly nodded.

"I brought you some clothes," she said.

Sherlock opened the bag and pulled out a Scottish football shirt. Mycroft had to hold back a laugh at the look of disgust on his brother's face. Molly grinned.

"I thought it might help you blend in," she said, "and we can tell my brother you hurt yourself during practice."

"A believable lie," Mycroft commented. "Have you ever seen my brother play football? Rubbish."

Molly giggled again, and Sherlock simply glared at her, not amused. He stormed out of the room in silence to change, leaving Mycroft to decide how to handle this time alone with Molly. She seemed to understand the uncomfortableness of the situation, and she sat down on the couch, keeping silent.

When his brother returned, there was nothing he could do to keep from letting a small grin escape. The jersey made Sherlock look younger, and the fake glasses he put on made the disguise even more believable.

"Can we get this over with?" Sherlock groaned.

His fake accent was too amusing. Mycroft almost forgot the goodbyes they would have to say- and the fact that he might not see his brother for months, years even. In London it had always been far too easy to keep an eye on his little brother. After believing he was dead Mycroft admitted to himself that he wasn't ready for Sherlock to disappear into the world so soon. But he knew there was no choice; it was for the greater good.

The two brothers stood face to face. Sherlock avoided his eyes, and Mycroft had the feeling that the moment he walked out of his house he would ignore everything he had instructed him to do.

"Here's the phone," Mycroft said, handing a new phone he had stolen from the government to Sherlock. "Try not to contact anyone in London with it. Don't try to keep in touch with anyone here. As tempting as it might be, don't look up your friends. Leave this life behind, Sherlock. It's done now. Tomorrow I'm going with mother to pick out a tombstone."

Sherlock nodded, but they both knew that all of this would be easier said than done. Sherlock had no idea of the hardships ahead of him. Plans always looked good on paper, but once he was out there with no one to contact, with no help, it was going to be hard. And it would be hard sitting here, in London, with no one to talk to about this, without knowing where his brother was or if he was safe.

"Write to me," Mycroft said, "tell me where you are, what you have accomplished. Tell me when you need help. I mean it."

"I'll be fine," Sherlock insisted, "the hardest part is over."

"No," Mycroft said, shaking his head, "dying is the easy part."

Sherlock's eyes darted away, and Mycroft knew he knew he was right. Molly stepped between them, taking this as a cue to interfere.

"Are you ready to say goodbye to London?" She asked Sherlock.

Mycroft looked back at his brother, and his brother looked at him. The two had never been close. They spent most of their lives despising each other. Yet Mycroft knew his brother well enough to know that he would love nothing more to be back in Baker Street. But he had to be brave. If not just for Molly's sake.

"Take care, Sherlock," Mycroft said. He turned to Molly. "Look after him."

As Molly nodded, Mycroft knew he would never forget how terrified the two of them looked at that moment.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note: Thanks again to my beta equal_to_k from Livejournal!

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><p>Sherlock Holmes sat in his hotel room in Warsaw, tossing his phone back and forth between his hands. He should text her. It was just a text, it was harmless. He had been legally dead for six months, and little progress had been made on pursuing Moriarty's men. Sherlock was growing restless, and he knew Mycroft had to be growing frustrated. It had been so easy, taking on the world from his flat in London. But now alone, traveling from city to city in Europe, never staying anywhere for more than a few weeks, Sherlock was beginning to doubt his plans.<p>

He thought he had finally caught onto the actions of Zachary Monroe, the assassin who had been hired to kill Lestrade, but it turned out he had accidently taken down a drug lord instead. Which was quite extraordinary work, and his brother seemed impressed when he wrote back, but it still left him nowhere with Moriarty's gang. Mycroft sent him a lead that Monroe entered Poland, and Sherlock stationed himself in Warsaw, and surrounded himself with pages and pages of info on the sniper, determined not to fail.

And the determination was eating at him. Six months. People in London would start forgetting about him by six months. Six months was the half-way anniversary of the first year of his death, which would be the hardest for his friends to deal with. Sherlock swallowed, trying not to think of John. Mycroft was right, it was too tempting to try to keep up with how his friends were.

But there was one person he could still turn to. One – friend? – that even Mycroft didn't know about. And she was only a text away.

At last Sherlock took a deep breath, bit his lip, and typed:

_"Any recommendations for restaurants in the afterlife?"_

He hit 'send' before he could change his mind. Breathing quickly, heart pounding, Sherlock sat up all night waiting for a reply. He sat in the darkness, listening to the sounds of life from the street below as he stared at the phone, wondering if he made a mistake. Perhaps his message was being tracked. Even Mycroft could be tracking him. He would kill him if he knew he was using the phone for texting.

Then, he realized, maybe she didn't understand. She would have no idea where to find him.

_"W. P."_ He texted

And continued to wait.

At some point in the night he managed to fall asleep, and when the sunrise awoke him the next morning the first thing he noticed was that his phone was lit up. A single word reply greeted him.

The restaurant she picked was rather high class, and the one suit Molly thought to pack for him was a bit too small. He felt out of place, and he was still only vaguely familiar with the language. Sherlock rarely spent time in such public spaces, and he felt like all eyes were on him as he nervously stepped into the dining area of the restaurant, in search for his date.

It didn't take long to spot her. Wearing a slick red, strapless dress, Irene Adler sat in a table on the outside patio, gazing out to the downtown life that was alive around them. Remembering that he was still supposed to be David Williams, Sherlock was amused at the opportunity to startle her with his new accent.

"Is this seat taken?"

Irene jumped slightly, but when she looked up at him she smiled mischievously, admiring him. Sherlock grinned as well – for what felt like the first time in months – and took the seat across from her. His eyes drifted to the city, and he took in, for the first time, the change in architecture. Traveling was still a bit surreal for him, as he had spent most of his life clinging to London.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Irene said. She took a sip of her water. "You look quite lovely, considering the papers say you're a deranged, dead psychopath."

Sherlock looked down, reluctant to begin their conversation here. Becoming David Williams meant leaving his old life behind, which meant not having to deal with the questions about why he had to do what he did. Now he would have to have that conversation once more, and he wasn't sure what he was supposed to say. He wasn't sure what he was doing here, with Irene.

"Did you come to ask for my experience, as someone who is also supposed to be dead?" She asked.

He turned to the first page of the menu.

"Actually I was wondering what is good here."

"Well," Irene said, placing her hands over his menu, forcing his eyes to meet hers, "I'm told the fish is wonderful. In fact, here's our dinner now."

He didn't argue with her ordering for him, as he cared little about the food to begin with. He was more interested in her; admittedly, he did want to know how she found life after "death".

"So are you having them yet?" Irene said, admiring the food.

"What?"

A darkness flashed in Irene's eyes; he couldn't tell if she was concerned or just devious.

"The nightmares."

Sherlock stared at her, too startled to reply.

The nightmares.

There were too many of them. They were the reasons he had stopped sleeping, the reasons his eyes looked so haggard and hazy and the reason his head pounded with exhaustion. But the discomfort was worth saving himself from the dreams of Moriarty, of John's desperate attempts to stop him from killing himself. Dreams of what his friends and family were going through at home. Dreams of what Moriarty's men might do, were they to discover he were still alive.

Sherlock glanced over to the street beside him, and for a moment he swore he saw Moriarty grinning back at him, IPod in one hand, gun in the other.

He turned back to Irene, and he knew she had seen right through him.

"You know, it's quite chilly out tonight," Irene said, "and I need a place to stay. You wouldn't happen to have a hotel room already, would you?"

Sherlock remained silent as he opened his room and allowed Irene to follow him inside. It was uncomfortable, having such a painful reminder of his previous life with him so suddenly.

"Oh don't worry," she said, grinning as she placed her coat over a chair, "I won't hurt you. I'm over that life now."

Finally, Sherlock was able to say something:

"Really?" He replied with a smirk.

"Well, partially, anyway. You're not helping. Let's see...fraudulent detective dies in double suicide, alongside Jim Moriarty. That game didn't go quite as planned, did it?"

Sherlock sat the take away boxes on the table; he couldn't remember what was inside them. Irene took hers, and as she began to eat Sherlock had the feeling that it had been awhile since she had last eaten. It had been for him as well, but appetite was one thing he hadn't been able to recover since his fall.

"Actually, everything went quite as planned," Sherlock said, "it was just not the most pleasant of plans."

"Right," Irene said.

She raised a finger to his forehead; her soft skin brushed across the scar that had still yet to heal.

"You'll have that with you for life," she said, "You're brave, Sherlock Holmes, I'll give you that. Not many would throw themselves off a building, not even to save their friends."

She continued to eat, studying him as she did so. Sherlock took the time to observe her as well, noticing every detail, as always. The expensive jewelry that showed she still had money, or was still with someone who had money. The scar behind her ear that suggested a recent fight. Her eyes had changed to blue with coloured contacts; they actually looked quite nice. And she was making him feel completely uncomfortable, as he knew she was deducing him in the same exact way.

"Tired, lonely, impatient," she recited, "getting nowhere with your mission, are you? I supposed you think you could use my help?"

Sherlock hesitated, not wanting to argue with her – because she was right – but not wanting to admit this weakness.

"What do you know about Jim Moriarty?" He asked her.

She sat her fork down, folded her hands, and looked at him calmly, but with a cold seriousness that made him shiver.

"Jim Moriarty is the most dangerous man in London," she said.

"Very good."

"_You think_ Jim Moriarty is the most dangerous man in London," she said, before he could say anything else. "You're wrong. If Jim Moriarty is a consulting criminal then that makes whoever is hiring him the most dangerous man. Jim Moriarty is, with no doubt, a psychopath, but he is completely acting off of someone else's orders."

This much Sherlock had always suspected, but he was surprised to find someone who believed him.

"Who?" He demanded. She didn't answer. "Who? Tell me! This is about me. This is about Moriarty threatening my friends, and if he's acting on someone else's orders I need to know whose orders those are!"

Irene stood gracefully, and walked over to the edge of the room's only bed where she sat, staring at the floor. She hesitated, as though hoping he would forget that he asked.

"I know about you," she whispered, "about your past, I mean. And its okay, I don't judge. God knows I have my share of demons and secrets. But Sherlock, some people aren't forgiving. Some people don't forget."

Sherlock stared at her, his heart beating rapidly; he wasn't sure which terrified him more, that he wouldn't like the answer to her question or that she had researched him. Though of course she would research him, why was that surprising?

"Who?" He asked again, this time softly, trying to hide the tremble in his voice.

She looked at him, her eyes sorrowful and sympathetic.

"Sebastian Moran."

His heart stopped. His hand gripped the back of his chair; he was afraid he might sink into the ground and disappear. He could practically feel Moran's eyes glaring at him, his voice taunting him, as though he had somehow found Sherlock just by Irene mentioning his name.

Standing up, Sherlock moved to take a seat next to Irene; the two sat in silence for a moment.

"I can tell you more," she offered.

"Don't."

Because suddenly, he understood everything.


	3. Chapter 3

A week later he tracked down Monroe in a town an hour outside of Warsaw. His breath ripped through the cold night air as he darted in and out of factory buildings, his fingers frozen around the trigger of his gun. At last he stopped as he heard a harsh cough.

"Yes," Sherlock muttered to himself, "can't hide that pneumonia, Monroe. Must feel pretty awful."

Another cough, this time closer. Eyes darting around, Sherlock desperately searched for the source, confused. It was the echoes of the building, playing tricks on him, he realized. Monroe was close, very close-

"I actually do feel pretty awful, thanks."

Sherlock spun around at Monroe's eastern European accent, but he was too late and was greeted with a punch to the face. Monroe had a knife against his neck in an instant.

"Drop the gun," Monroe ordered.

Sherlock hesitated, thinking. He made mental note of escape routes- a hidden stairway to a basement area, an alleyway to a back lot, an entrance to a janitor's closet. But he didn't want to escape. He wanted to end this.

As the knife dug deeper into his neck, and Sherlock couldn't help but to wince at the touch of the sharp, cool, metal.

"I said drop it," Monroe said.

This time he obeyed.

"Very good," Monroe said, "now what to do with you, Sherlock Holmes? Oh yes, I recognize you. You look pretty good for being dead. I suppose that means no one will miss you."

"I don't think so."

His heart began racing at the sound of his brother's voice. Though grateful at a possible opportunity for survival, Sherlock was enraged to see Mycroft walking towards him, gun drawn and aimed at Monroe.

_"How?"_ Sherlock demanded, ignoring the weapon against his neck.

"Are you really surprised?" Mycroft replied. "I just wanted to see my brother single-handedly take down one of Europe's most wanted assassins. I would hope that it would be a rather easy fight, but then I remembered that day in the school yard. As I can see, I was right to be worried."

"I was ill!" Sherlock shot. "Which was a pretty good weapon, seeing as you ran away once I started coughing on you."

"Yes, you were always quite disgusting."

"Would you two _shut up_?" Monroe exclaimed. "My head is killing-"

Sherlock used the opportunity to hit Monroe in the ribs. In an instant he spun around, and after a quick struggle he had the knife pointed at the assassin. Sherlock backed away slowly, standing next to Mycroft.

"The Holmes brothers," Monroe hissed, "you two make quite the team. But you don't know what's coming for you. You have no idea."

"Really?" Mycroft said.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, twirling the knife in his hands.

"I'll let you take this one, Mycroft," he said as he began walking away.

"You don't want to take care of your first target?" Mycroft shouted back, surprised.

Sherlock grinned.

"Consider this a birthday present."

Mycroft had them on a train headed to Paris before midnight. Sherlock had reluctantly come along; he had been looking forward to leaving Poland, but clearly not with his brother. Sighing, Mycroft gazed at his glass before taking another sip of his drink. Sherlock sat beside him, back straight, eyes forward, fingers tapping on the arm rest as though they were waiting in a doctor's office and not sitting on a midnight train to France. His brother was dressed in denim jeans and a sweatshirt, a rather odd look for him, but he was now Anthony Williamson, a businessman from America.

"Your wrist looks better," Mycroft noted, remembering how bruised and battered Sherlock was the last time they saw each other.

"Yes, well that was six months ago."

Sherlock didn't try to hide the bitterness in his voice. Mycroft sighed.

"You're angry at me," he stated.

"Of course I'm angry at you!" Sherlock snapped. "I don't want to be on my way to France with my brother."

"I'm flattered," Mycroft said, rolling his eyes. "Forgive me if I wanted to spend some time with my brother on my birthday."

"You don't care about birthdays."

This much was true, but it made for a good excuse. Sherlock looked around, as to make sure no one could hear them, and then asked what Mycroft feared most:

"How was the funeral?"

"Sherlock-"

"Wouldn't you want to know, if it was you?" Sherlock pointed out.

No, he wouldn't. He wouldn't want to know how his mother collapsed into a pool of tears by his grave, how Mycroft had to struggle just to be able to get her to where she was well enough to go to the service. He wouldn't want to know how ill John looked, how he already looked as though he were bordering on depression, how he hadn't spoken to anyone since...that day. He wouldn't want to know how angry Lestrade looked, how sleepless he appeared after a week of staying awake, probably blaming himself for everything that happened.

When he met his brother's unknowing eyes and realized how Sherlock had no idea just how bad it was back home, Mycroft knew that he could never be allowed to find out.

"We're not talking about this," he said simply.

Sherlock didn't look away.

"How's John?"

Mycroft had been afraid of this. Why couldn't Sherlock just sleep on trains like everyone else? It had been his one fear when arranging to travel to France with him.

"Go to sleep, Sherlock," he said, "You look like you could use the rest."

Sherlock's eyes drifted away, helplessly, and he replied:

"I don't sleep."

The sun was rising in Paris as they sat in the nearly empty cafe. Neither brother had spoken as they left the train station in search of a place to eat and finalize Sherlock's plans for France. Sherlock was staring at the television set in the cafe, eyes glued to the morning news, which was reporting nothing out of the ordinary; but Mycroft knew he was searching for any announcement regarding Monroe.

"It won't be on the news," Mycroft said, unable to stand his brother's silence any longer. Sherlock looked at him, startled, as though he had been shaken out of a dream. "Someone like Monroe isn't something the public needs to know about."

Sherlock didn't reply. They were saved from having to make further conversation as a waitress brought them their food. Mycroft glanced down at his plate, skeptical. Suddenly French cuisine didn't sound too appetizing at six thirty in the morning.

They sat in silence for a moment as Sherlock began his meal. Of course he had ordered the most expensive combination on the menu, and as Mycroft watched him eat he had to wonder if his brother had bothered remembering to eat the entire time he was in Poland. After a few minutes, Sherlock finally spoke up:

"You're not going to eat?"

"I don't think so," Mycroft said, pushing his plate away.

"Well that's rather rude."

"I'm paying for this meal!" Mycroft pointed out. And on his own birthday, too.

After Sherlock finished his mouthful he stopped, pausing to take a look around the restaurant and at the city that was coming to life outside.

"Raymond Rodriguez is from Albuquerque, New Mexico," Sherlock pointed out, "why would he be in Paris?"

"Because it's unexpected," Mycroft said, "now, you know what you're going to do, correct?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and went back to eating; a way to avoid answering.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft protested.

"Yes, I know!" Sherlock said. "It should only take a few days. I'll be on a train to Italy by Sunday."

"It took you six months to catch Monroe, Sherlock! And then you couldn't even kill him. If you were going to be that dreadful you should have just left it up to me. They would all be dead by now."

"Yes, and so would John, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade," Sherlock shot, "this is up to me. And I didn't not kill Monroe because of some kind of weakness. Like I said, it was a birthday present."

He studied his brother, who was refusing to meet his eyes. Neither of them had slept on the train, leaving them both exhausted and bitter. Sherlock looked like he hadn't slept since he left London. He was losing weight, and he looked as though the past six months had aged him six years. This plan wasn't going very well, and Mycroft feared what would happened if Sherlock couldn't find Rodriguez in time. Mycroft knew his brother wasn't a killer. Not at heart. Not even if his opponent was one of the most dangerous men in the country. But there was something else on Sherlock's mind; something else his brother had been reluctant to discuss. But at last Sherlock looked as though he couldn't take the secrecy much longer. Sherlock sighed, and said:

"There's something you should know. I wasn't going to tell you because I knew you'd come running to find me, but here you are anyway."

Eyebrows raised in curiosity, Mycroft didn't interrupt.

"I have intel on who it is that hired Moriarty to come after me," Sherlock said. His brother's eyes grew dark- _afraid_, almost, and Mycroft wasn't sure what he should be bracing himself to hear. But what Sherlock did say was far from what he would have ever guessed. "It's Sebastian Moran."

Mycroft's fist fell onto the table. His stomach twisted into knots; a horrible shiver shot down his spine. Sherlock obviously felt the same way – his brother looked as though he might be ill. It was an emotion Sherlock would have offered no one to see except him and only because of this subject.

"This ends now," Mycroft declared. He looked around for the waitress so that they could get their check and leave, as quickly as possible.

Paranoia had him observing every inch of the restaurant, as though Moran would appear from nowhere, just by his name being mentioned.

"No!" Sherlock exclaimed. "I can do this, Mycroft. I can take each of them down, and I'll take down Moran too!"

"You couldn't even take down Zachary Monroe in Poland!" Mycroft all but shouted. "This ends now, Sherlock! I'm putting you into protective custody."

They were getting strange looks now. The waitress came with the check, and Mycroft paid, leaving his entire plate untouched on the table. The staff didn't look too pleased, but Mycroft ignored them as he stormed outside where a rainstorm was brewing. He struggled with the keys to the rental car as his hands shook. Inside the car, Sherlock sank down into the passenger seat like an angry child. Mycroft stared at the dashboard, wishing that there was someone else there to tell him how to handle this. He understood his brother's motivation, but he couldn't risk putting him in that kind of danger. But he knew Sherlock would not listen to him and his concerns, and he knew the kind of danger that carelessness would get him into.

"I didn't pretend to kill myself just so I can crawl home six months later with nothing to show for it," Sherlock finally said, his voice sounding hollow against the rain.

"Lestrade would be pleased."

He knew Monroe was the one who had been hired to target the detective. Sherlock wasn't amused. Mycroft let out a long sigh.

"Sherlock, this is too much for you to handle alone," he said, "You know it. That's why you haven't been sleeping. That's why you're on edge."

"That's not why I haven't been sleeping."

"What?"

He turned to look at his brother, at his drained, empty eyes. He thought of John Watson back in London, sitting and staring out a window somewhere, where he would share a similar, lost, look.

"I saw Moriarty kill himself," Sherlock admitted, "and I see it happen again, every night before I try to go to sleep. I see all of it happen again."

He didn't offer him anymore, but Mycroft was surprised that Sherlock offered that much. He supposed that six months in isolation was starting to wear him thin, causing him further worry that his brother wasn't up for the years he still had in this fight.

"I don't sleep," Sherlock said, repeating his dead phrase from the night before, "I can't sleep. I don't know why you bother paying for my hotel rooms."

"I'm not having you stay out on the streets," Mycroft said, horrified that his brother might even begin to seriously suggest the thought.

Arms crossed, Sherlock refused to meet his eyes. Suddenly he wasn't Sherlock Holmes, the genius detective. He was Sherlock Holmes, his younger brother, completely lost to the world and stuck inside some kind of madness he couldn't escape. The isolation from the world of crime, from John Watson and Baker Street, was pulling Sherlock away from everything he had been able to become, and now he was slowly breaking down. Back to who he was before.

"Sorry," Sherlock said suddenly, sitting up. And there he was again, in his thirties. Almost acting like a real adult.

"Don't be," Mycroft replied, "Sherlock – I'm serious. If you want out of this, I can get you to safety. We can do this very quietly. I have men who can track down the rest of Moriarty's gang."

Sherlock shook his head.

"Not a chance," he said, "I started this, and I'm finishing it."

He began to look at the roadmaps on the dashboard, purposefully ignoring Mycroft with all his might. At last Mycroft turned away, wondering how Sherlock would look the next time he saw him. He could only hope for the best because there was no use arguing with him now. Mycroft started up the car and replied:

"Very well, then."


	4. Chapter 4

Author's Note: I apologize that this chapter is short, but I did not have much time to work on this story this week. I wanted to be able to upload at least something, though, and I will try my best to upload more of this story this weekend! I'd like to say thank you to everyone who is reading and reviewing!

* * *

><p><em>2006<em>

_ He let the cool surface of the table ease his pounding headache as he hid his face in his arms. The small holding room felt claustrophobic, and he was finding it harder and harder to breathe. Sherlock tried to concentrate- concentrate on forgetting why he was there._

_ The door creaked open, and he carefully raised his head, mindful of how awful he felt. The trembling had already begun in his hands, and he was still freezing though the thermostat read normal room temperature. A blanket someone offered him hours ago had long since fallen to the floor, and he hadn't the energy to reach down to pick it up. It took effort to open his eyes to the unwelcomed blinding light, and he didn't feel any better upon seeing a blurry form of his brother enter the room. He swallowed nervously as his brother sat across from him and looked at him for the first time in a year._

_ "Why am I not surprised?" Sherlock hissed. Mycroft didn't answer. "I'm not being arrested, then?"_

_ Remaining silent, Mycroft sat a bulky government file in front of Sherlock. He noticed his brother's hand was covered with blood; the wound was fresh. The lines in his brother's forehead were more obvious than ever before. His eyes were sunken and cold. He hadn't been sleeping and not because of worrying about his family. _

_ "You've been promoted?" Sherlock said, and sarcastically added: "Congratulations."_

_ Mycroft still didn't reply as he sat down a pitcher of water and poured a glass, handing it to Sherlock, who didn't even give it a second glance. His brother then folded his hands under his chin, and Sherlock mocked him, out of spite. _

_ "Cute," Mycroft shot. The first words his brother had spoken to him in twelve months. "Withdrawal settling in nicely?"_

_ Glaring at him, Sherlock stopped with the teasing. Mycroft opened the file, and Sherlock fought to maintain composer when he recognized the man staring up at him from the mugshot. However, his brother still seemed to notice how uncomfortable he was. Sherlock didn't interrupt when Mycroft began to explain:_

_ "Sebastian Moran. Apparently known to you as Jason Malone. He's been living on the streets of London for the past three months, but he's not homeless. He's in hiding. Wanted for over a dozen international crimes. A dozen more assassinations. This man is extremely dangerous, and he doesn't work alone. He has a web of criminal masterminds to take his orders, people who are almost equally as dangerous as he is. These are people who are wanted dead or alive by numerous countries. These are people who have numerous royal families and political figures funding their investigations because of the harm they have done. And he's the man who was found with you, tonight, Sherlock. So please, explain."_

_ Sherlock remained silent, his breathing harsh and uneven. To him, Sebastian Moran was a school teacher who had taken a wrong turn in life and ended up on the streets. He had been one of the more tolerable of the people he had met on the streets, and Malone- Moran- had even saved his life, on multiple occasions. There was no way he could be the same man in the picture._

_ "That wasn't a question!" Mycroft exclaimed. Sherlock jumped as his brother's voice echoed against the white walls. Running his hand through his unkept, sweaty, hair he tried to be able to understand. _

_ "I didn't know," was all he could manage._

_ Mycroft turned to the next page in the file, revealing one of Moran's victims. The sickness he had been holding in was starting to make its way up his throat. Sherlock struggled, too ashamed to be ill in front of his brother._

_ "I swear!" Sherlock said. "He was just someone I met!"_

_ "How did you meet him?"_

_ "I-"_

_ "How?"_

_ Clenching his fist, he took a few deep breaths, and tried not to panic. _

_ "It was getting too cold to stay on the streets," Sherlock began quietly. He wasn't used to talking about his living situation with his brother, and it made him feel uncomfortable to see the sudden empathy appear in Mycroft's eyes. "So I started looking for abandoned homes and buildings. I found Jason- Moran- and one of his mates staying in one. They had some food to offer me, and I decided to stay there for awhile. He told me he used to be a school teacher. He told me his wife left him, he lost his job, and he'd been on the streets for nearly a year. He never mentioned anything, anything like this."_

_ His brother studied him for a moment, and at last Mycroft looked like he wasn't ready to kill him. He could hardly blame his brother, though he wasn't looking for sympathy or help._

_ "Forgive me, Sherlock, if I find it a little hard to trust you," Mycroft said quietly. "I know you don't want me in your life, and I'm not here to bring you back home. I'm here because word got out quickly when Moran was taken into our custody, and somehow your name has gotten out as well. If we continue to detain Moran it is you that his colleges and followers would blame." Now he was beginning to understand, and he had never felt so angry at himself in his life. How had he managed to get caught up with someone like Moran? How had any of this managed to happen? Lowering his face into his hands, Sherlock closed his eyes, and for the first time he truly wished he could go back to the day when he ran away from home and change everything. "You're in danger, Sherlock. So if there's anything, anything at all that you need to tell me, now is the time."_

_ His hands fell back to the table, and he met his brother's eyes._

_ "I didn't know," he repeated. His voice sounded so small, so unfamiliar. He just wanted the night to be over with._

_ Mycroft studied him for a moment longer, and Sherlock swore he saw a hint of sympathy in his eyes even though he had absolutely no reason to feel sorry for him. Mycroft's eyes then trailed to Sherlock's neck and subconsciously his hand flew there, trying to hide the scar. But it was too late._

_ "What happened there?" Mycroft said. His eyes flashed to Sherlock's face, where he was now seeing the fading black eye as well._

_ Sherlock looked away, knowing he'd rather melt into a puddle on the floor at have to admit the truth._

_ "I was mugged this morning."_

That's where this all began_, he thought, but did not add._

_ Mycroft sighed as he collected the file and stood up. He pushed the glass of water closer to Sherlock._

_ "I can get someone to bring you some ice," he offered._

_ "I'm fine."_

_ "I'm going to have a doctor examine you."_

_ "I'm fine."_

_ He didn't look after him, but Sherlock knew his brother hesitated before opening the door, as though worried Sherlock might disappear before he returned. Knowing Mycroft, the door would be bolted tight with a guard- or two- standing outside. Before his brother left, Sherlock finally remembered to ask:_

_ "Where am I?"_

_His only reply was a soft echo as the door closed. Sighing, Sherlock's head fell into his arms again. _

A bitter wind drew him away from the memory as Sherlock turned to the empty warehouse. He forced himself to concentrate despite the icy rain that was beginning to fall. Raymond Rodriguez. The American had a laundry list of crimes he was wanted for, but the only one Sherlock had bothered to remember was his most recent- being the man who had been ready to kill Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock drew the gun from his pocket, but just as he stepped through the entrance a deep, rugged, American accent stopped him.

"Did you really think this would be that easy?"

As Sherlock attempted to turn around to face his opponent everything went black.


	5. Chapter 5

The clock ticked towards one AM as Mycroft sat in his study. His half-empty glass rested on the desk beside the mobile Sherlock was supposed to contact him with. Hours had passed since their agreed upon five PM deadline. Sherlock's train to Venice would have long-since left, and he could only assume that the lack of response was a sign that something was wrong. He had no knowledge of where Sherlock was in France- or if he was still in the country. He had no knowledge of whether the American was dead or not. As the minutes passed by all he could do was wait and convince himself that his decision not to bring anyone else from the government into this mission was a good one.

* * *

><p><em>2006<em>

_His staff had offered Sherlock to move to a more comfortable room, but Sherlock had refused. _

_There had been some improvement, however, as apparently he was demanding to talk to his brother. It was noon when Mycroft entered the room again, carrying a bag of carry-out food. His brother's eyes immediately flashed towards the smell of café grease, but then he looked away, as though wanting to pretend he wasn't tempted. _

_ "Forgive me, but I haven't eaten all morning," Mycroft said._

_ "You don't eat carry-out food," Sherlock snapped._

_ His voice was raspy and worn, the result of a mixture of a night in solitude and a morning of yelling at his staff. _

_ "Maybe I've changed."_

_ "You haven't."_

_ Sighing, Mycroft pushed the bag of food towards his brother._

_ "Eat something, Sherlock." His brother still refused to acknowledge the food. "I've heard you've given my staff a bit of trouble this morning. That's not very nice of you, considering they've been working fifteen hours straight trying to help you."_

_ "They're not trying to help me," Sherlock said, "you've been torturing Moran. Did you get any good information out of him? Or do you just enjoy walking around with an injured hand?"_

_ Mycroft glanced down at his hand. He stretched out his fingers, tensing at the pain that remained beneath the bandages. But it had been worth it. The two brothers studied each other for a moment. He knew Sherlock was growing restless. He was anxious to know the reasoning behind Mycroft's actions. He knew there was a greater reason for him to be held in the government's care._

_ "I'm not here just for protection, am I?" Sherlock said._

_ Mycroft folded his hands and forced himself to look his brother in the eye._

_ "I want you to get help, Sherlock-"_

_ "No."_

_ He didn't flinch, having expected an instant protest from his brother._

_ "You've gotten yourself mixed up in some serious trouble. This game has to end, Sherlock. It's not _cute _anymore. You need to get help before you really put yourself in danger."_

_ His brother was shaking his head, at such a pace that it was almost dizzying to observe._

_ "No. No. No. No."_

_ "For god's sake, you're not a child!"_

_ "You don't understand!" Sherlock exclaimed. The guard outside turned towards Mycroft as his brother raised his voice, but Mycroft motioned to them that everything was alright. "I can quit anytime I want to. I'm not an addict. I'm not...dependent on this life. It's just how I choose to live, and I'm sorry if it doesn't meet yours and Mummy's expectations."_

_ "This kind of life wouldn't meet anyone's expectations!" Mycroft shot. "Sherlock, this was one of our coldest winters on record and you spent it living out of abandoned office buildings!"_

_ "And how did you spend it?" Sherlock challenged; his eyes flared with madness as Mycroft glared at him, daring him to go that far. "With a nice promotion? An increase in salary? Because that's what you need. More money."_

_ "I don't do this job for the money."_

_ "No, you do it because you think you're some sort of savior," Sherlock said, "you just can't help but to help people. Well, some people don't want to be helped. They don't need to be."_

_ Before entering the room he had told himself not to be bothered by his brother's insults. He knew what to expect from him, he knew how hard this conversation would be. And he had been determined to not take this personally. But now, he just couldn't help it. It always instinct to flashback to their childhood, back when Sherlock could never understand why Mycroft actually tried to get somewhere in life._

_ "I was given this promotion because I have skills that no one else in this government could dream of having!" Mycroft said. "You could have the same kind of success to if you could just start trying for once and stop feeling sorry for yourself because of something that happened years ago!"_

_ "I don't want success!"_

_ "No, you don't want anything!" Mycroft said. "You don't even want to be safe, to have shelter and food."_

_ "It's a simple life, Mycroft," his brother replied, "I wouldn't expect you to understand it."_

_ "If you're doing this to prove yourself Sherlock, stop, because I'm not impressed," he said. "I never wanted this for you. I never cared what you did with your life, but I would have never wanted you to go down this path. You're so young, Sherlock, and you're throwing your life away."_

_ His brother didn't rely. He was actually speechless. Mycroft had to fight the urge to smirk; he had never before succeeded in getting his brother to listen to him. Now that he at last had his attention, he knew his next words would be vital._

_ "I don't want you to do this for me, or for mother," he said, "but because you know you can do better than this. I don't know if you took on this life as a challenge, or to prove a point, but you must have realized out there that there is so much more that you can do." _

_ Daring to steal a glance towards his brother, he was pleased to see Sherlock avoiding his eyes, staring down at his hands. He didn't reply, but he didn't need to. This was the most progress he had made with Sherlock in years. _

_ "I'd like for you to stay here while we deal with Moran," Mycroft said, "but after that, you may go wherever you please. But if you want help, I can get you whatever you need."_

_ Sherlock remained silent as Mycroft pushed himself away from the table. He noticed the water pitcher had been smashed to pieces nearby, an unfortunate victim of Sherlock's anger, and he made a note to ask Anthea to bring him another. He didn't dare look back as he exited the room, and when the door was safely closed behind him he leaned back against it, eyes closed. A deep sigh escaped him before he walked away._

* * *

><p>Mycroft was drawn away from the memory as a ringtone echoed against the walls of the room. Hands trembling slightly with anxiety, Mycroft quickly answered the call on the second ring. He paused, trying to calm down before answering:<p>

"Hello?"

"Good evening, Mr. Holmes." Mycroft looked up, as though expecting to see the American standing in front of him. Raymond Rodriguez. He couldn't help how his heartbeat began to speed up as it was confirmed that the worst-case scenario had come true. Something had gone wrong. "I'm sorry to bother you, but it has come to my attention that the younger Mr. Holmes was due to contact you several hours ago, and I did not want to deprive you of that conversation. Unfortunately, Mr. Holmes is currently unavailable to take this call, so I will be stepping in. I hope you don't mind."

His fist tightened at the notion that his brother could be hurt, but he refused to be effected by Rodriguez's taunting. Instead as he listened carefully he turned on the phone's tracking device to trace the call and listened closely as Rodriguez continued.

"Now surely, Mr. Holmes, you did not think that you could go on killing Mr. Moran's men without anyone noticing. Luckily for you I was the one who caught onto what your brother has been doing and not Mr. Moran himself. Rest assured, Mr. Moran still believes that Sherlock Holmes is dead and buried in London. If he were to discover that not only did Sherlock Holmes survive the fall, but it was all a plan from the start to take down his _company_, there would be very serious consequences. It seems now that I am faced with two options: I can inform Mr. Moran of Mr. Holmes' survival, which would surely result in your brother's death, not to mention the deaths of those whom Moriarty originally threatened. I could kill Mr. Holmes myself and save me the trouble of having to track down Mr. Moran, who is very busy at the moment. I have to admit that I would not want to be the messenger to have to inform him of this news. Or, it is possible that Mr. Moran never has to know of Sherlock Holmes' survival. Your brother can return to London or Asia or America or whatever the hell he wants to go, and we can just consider this to be one big _misunderstanding_."

A few uneven breaths escaped him as Mycroft tried to wrap his mind around the threat. He recognized this for what this was: a hostage negotiation. He also knew exactly what Rodriguez would ask for, and he knew the risks involved with agreeing to this. He also knew the risks involved in not agreeing to this.

"What is it that you want from me?" Mycroft asked.

"I think you know exactly what I want," Rodriguez said, "a life sentence is a little much for armed robbery, don't you think?"

Rodriguez's file currently sat on his desk, and upon mention of the American's brother- whom Mycroft helped put away in prison for life ten years ago- he opened the file to the middle section, which contained a briefing of the incident.

"Not if by armed robbery you mean shooting an innocent civilian while robbing them in their home," Mycroft replied.

"Yes," Rodriguez agreed, "but you and I both know that man did not die because of my brother. That man was shot in the leg. It was self-defense."

Mycroft let out a hoarse laugh.

"My brother shot that man in the leg after he tried to attack him!" Rodriguez said. "My brother was young and stupid, Mr. Holmes. I'm sure you know what I mean." Mycroft remained silent, unwilling to admit Rodriguez was correct on that point. "His intentions were only robbery. When the resident attacked him once he entered his home my brother panicked and shot him in the leg. But that is not why he died, and we both know this. We both know what really killed that man was his pre-existing condition and the fact that he conveniently only had three months left to live."

_"Conveniently." _Mycroft mocked, disgusted.

"This was a government set-up!" Rodriguez said. "You knew you could get to me by taking down my brother, and it didn't work."

"No. Apparently even your brother receiving a life sentence was not enough to bring you back to London."

There was silence as Mycroft realized he had just admitted that Rodriguez was correct. In reality the incident had not been as bad as the media made it seem. Rodriguez's brother truly had been a young delinquent desperate to live up to his brother's reputation, and he really had only shot the resident of the home when he was attacked. And the gunshot wound really hadn't killed him. Technically, according to the coroner's original report, what killed him was a complication involving the man's terminal illness. But at the time the government was desperate to catch Rodriguez, who was involved in matters of international importance. Everything Rodriguez said was true, down to the fact that the younger Rodriguez remained in prison simply out of spite.

"Apparently," Rodriguez replied dryly, "I say ten years is long enough to teach a young man a lesson. I'm proposing a prisoner's exchange. My brother for yours."

Mycroft hesitated to reply. How had he not seen this coming? He had willingly placed his brother in the hands of these criminals, and now with each attempt to take down Moran they would risk a scenario exactly like this one. He knew what Rodriguez was capable of, and he knew that he had to get Sherlock out of his hands at all costs.

"I need to know my brother is alive."

There was a brief pause and the sound of scuffling feet. A lump developed in his throat as images flashed through his mind, considering the state his brother could be in. At last Sherlock's voice came in through the other line.

"Don't do this, Mycroft." Mycroft closed his eyes, both relieved and disturbed to hear the sound of his brother's voice, which sounded slightly shaken after the night's ordeal. "If you do this then we have no chance in winning this game. Moran will know. He'll _know_. If you do this, this will never end-"

Sherlock was cut off by the sound of Rodriguez taking the mobile away. Mycroft rested his head in the palm of his hand, thinking through each ramification of this situation- even though he knew there was only one solution he could agree to.

"I will need confirmation of my brother's freedom before Sherlock is released," Rodriguez said, "one of my men will take him to the train station, and from there he can go wherever he wishes to go. This will happen before the end of the day tomorrow. After that, I will have to resort to other means to get rid of your brother."

Rodriguez hung up, and Mycroft closed his eyes. He took a deep breath and tried to maintain composure and tried to not panic at the thought of who he would have to contact at this ungodly hour to make all of this happen. When he opened his eyes he threw his arm forward, sending the mobile crashing into the wall.


	6. Chapter 6

Mycroft would never admit how relieved he felt when he saw Sherlock step off the train in Venice the following afternoon. His brother's only possessions were the clothes he was wearing- a pair of jeans that looked like they had not been washed in a week and a wrinkled collared shirt. And_ sunglasses_. As Sherlock glanced up at the sky and was clearly bothered by the sudden bright sunshine, he appeared as though he was heading home after a drunken night out.

Sherlock jumped when Mycroft approached him.

"I'm impressed. In one night you were kidnapped by one of the world's top wanted criminals, managed to get his younger brother released from prison, and allowed both of them to escape."

Sherlock sighed, and when he spoke Mycroft could tell from the weariness of his voice that he had not slept at all on the train, probably due to trying to wrap his mind around those very facts.

"I'm sure the government appreciates you wasting their money on flying out to Italy just to insult me."

"Oh I wasted my own money to fly out to Italy just to insult you," Mycroft replied, smirking.

"You could have just phoned me," Sherlock said as they began to walk through the station.

"But then I couldn't have checked on your well being."

"I'm fine," Sherlock insisted, "you can leave now. I'm sure London misses you already."

"Sherlock!" His brother halted on cue at his tone. "Look at me." At last Sherlock turned around, sighing again as though this were all an inconvenience to him. "Take off the sunglasses."

Reluctantly, Sherlock obeyed and peeled off the sunglasses to reveal a swollen eye. Mycroft tensed, feeling foolish for letting Rodriguez get away with everything after what he threatened to do.

His brother glared at him.

"Just say it," Sherlock shot, "you know you want to."

"I have no idea what you mean," Mycroft lied.

On the flight over he had prepared a lecture for Sherlock on the dangers of going after internationally wanted criminals with no backup. Even though Sherlock did not have much of a choice in the matter, his careless mistakes were beginning to put him in harms way. He had been afraid of this from the start, and his fears were coming true.

"You think that I have no idea of what I'm getting myself into," Sherlock said, "you worry about me, constantly. You haven't been sleeping, your diet's failing miserably, and your fellow government employees are beginning to become suspicious about your behavior. I'm flattered, dear brother, but you're wrong. I'm fine."

"Obviously," Mycroft replied dryly.

Sherlock shot another glare towards him before putting the sunglasses on once again.

"A wise choice," Mycroft commented, "you look suspicious enough with those clothes. You look like you haven't been inside a launderette in months."

"I haven't."

Rolling his eyes, Mycroft continued walking their path towards the exit.

"Is that all he did?" Mycroft asked, studying his brother as they walked. "Only the black eye?"

This time Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Yes, Mummy," Sherlock shot, "the mean bully at school hit me again. He's an internationally wanted criminal. What did you expect? A pat on the back and a dinner for two?"

"You're lying. You're still slurring your words."

"I'm _fine_." There was a bitter pause as Sherlock stopped and turned towards him. "But you're right."

Mycroft froze, certain he had heard wrong.

"I'm sorry?" He said.

Sherlock scowled, unamused, but then took a deep breath as he admitted:

"I said, _you're right_. I may be slightly in over my head. What happened with Rodriguez could have blown the entire operation. I should have known better."

Mycroft stared at him, but Sherlock refused to meet him in the eye. As the bustle of the train station continued to spin to life around them the two brothers stood in silence, and Mycroft was certain that he was imagining this conversation.

"Are you _apologizing_?" Mycroft finally managed.

Sherlock sighed and shifted his weight to his other leg, obviously feeling out of place.

"Yes," Sherlock mumbled.

Mycroft looked away, feeling a sense of success though he knew it was an inappropriate time to.

"A Sherlock Holmes apology. Mummy would be so proud."

It was at those words that Sherlock grinned, and Mycroft could only stare as his brother broke into a fit of laughter.

"What?" Mycroft shot bitterly.

He knew this had been too good to be true. Sherlock shook his head, and the smile that spread across his face looked out of place against his exhausted appearance.

"That was disappointing, Mycroft," Sherlock said, "an apology? From me? No, never. Certainly not over this. In fact, I believe a 'thank you' is in order."

Mycroft frowned.

"You want a 'thank you' from me?"

He tried not to lose control- and tried not to be bothered by the fact that his brother fooled him.

"I believe 'thank you' is what you usually say when an internationally wanted criminal is delivered to your door." Sherlock laughed when Mycroft continued to stare at him, confused. "Rodriguez. He's dead."

"Dead?" Mycroft replied. He immediately began to feel faint. "But his brother was delivered to him just eight hours ago."

"Yes," Sherlock replied, "and then a rather unfortunate accident happened, and now he's dead."

"Sherlock, I-"

Sherlock placed a hand on his shoulder, and with a cheeky grin said:

"You're welcome."

"And the brother?" Mycroft said before Sherlock could walk away. "Sherlock do you know what strings I had to pull to get him out of prison? Do you know what kind of suspicion was raised? If he got away-"

"Oh he didn't get away," Sherlock said, "he's been a bit _tied up._ You're the one who has been handling his case for the past decade so I thought I would give you the honor of deciding how to make him disappear."

Mycroft was not sure rather he should be angry or grateful. Sherlock's grin faded, as though he understood his mixed feelings. As pleased as he was to hear that Rodriguez was _out of the picture_ he had never approved of Sherlock's rash methods.

"You do realize that I will have to return to London immediately to deal with this," Mycroft said.

Sherlock nodded, wearing a fake look of concern.

"Straight away," Sherlock replied.

The more he considered the meaning of what Sherlock did, the more he panicked as he realized all of the potential consequences. He could feel his heart beating faster, his

blood pressure surely raising, and he forced himself to talk through the matter to save him the panic attack.

"Did you leave behind any evidence?" He asked.

Sherlock stared at him, oblivious as to why he would need to ask.

"Of course not."

"Are you sure?"

They studied each other, Mycroft fearing the worst as Sherlock seemed to be considering how his brother would react to his choice of words.

"No," Sherlock admitted, "but I'm sure that you're sure."

Mycroft looked away, knowing Sherlock was right. As much as he wanted to lecture his brother he knew there was no problem that he would not be able to fix.

"I need to go," Mycroft said. Reaching into his suit jacket, he pulled out an envelope that he had been hiding. "I'm sending you to a safehouse in Dubai."

Sherlock skeptically accepted the envelope.

"The British government has a safehouse in Dubai?" Sherlock asked.

"_I _have a safehouse in Dubai." Sherlock seemed mildly impressed, but did not interrupt as Mycroft continued: "You are to stay there until I come and get you."

"And why, dearest brother, would I do that?"

"Because I _was_ right," Mycroft replied, "we need to rethink this mission of yours. This incident with Rodriguez was a close call, too close, and worse you brought another criminal into this."

"A life sentence is a bit long for armed robbery, don't you think?" Sherlock said sarcastically.

"This could happen with each of the people on your list," Mycroft said, "Rodriguez could have killed you, or worse."

"Why do people always say that?" Sherlock pondered, clearly ignoring the obvious truth to Mycroft's words. "Death is as bad as it gets, isn't it-"

Mycroft silenced him with a glare, reminding him of his own dealings with death.

"Right," Sherlock said quietly. "You're wrong, though. I can do this, Mycroft."

"Yes, and you'll do this far more efficiently and quickly with my help," Mycroft said, "which is why after I come and get you in Dubai we are going to America together to take care of the next person on the list."

Sherlock let out a dry laugh, his face reddening with what must have been the embarrassing thought of traveling with his brother.

"I will do no such thing!" Sherlock hissed. "I don't have time to waste with your safehouses. I'm not just going to wait around-"

"I'm afraid you have no choice in this," Mycroft said. He looked away. "I will not pretend that I look forward to our next adventure, but it must be this way."

"If you think I'm going to spend the next year running around America with you-"

"The next year?" Mycroft laughed. "There's a reason I'm stepping in, Sherlock. If we were doing this the right way, the _legal _way, I would be personally asked to supervise this. I have a personal history with Ethan Tyler, our next target. Trust me, I will be an asset."

"I'm sure," Sherlock mumbled. "And just how long will I have to wait for you?"

"A week, two, maybe three-"

"Weeks?" Sherlock exclaimed. "I'm not sitting in some safehouse for weeks!"

"A little culture will do you good," Mycroft smirked, "Dubai's a lovely place. Now, I really must go. Get on that plane, Sherlock. I will make sure you did."


	7. Chapter 7

Author's Note: I'm really, REALLY sorry for the wait! I'm getting ready to graduate so life has been really crazy lately. To make up for it, this chapter offers some background into Sherlock's homeless life and how he knew Moran. However, it's not the whole story. If this seems a little out-of-character remember that this is Sherlock before he became the Sherlock we know. Also, there is a lot more depth to Moran's character and a lot more of an explanation as to why he is after Sherlock than what is shown in this chapter. This is only the beginning!

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><p>Sherlock couldn't help but to gape in awe as he stepped into the Dubai 'safe-house'. Mycroft failed to mention that 'safe-house' meant loft at the top of one of the most expensive buildings in Dubai. Floor to ceiling windows surrounded him, allowing the glowing Dubai sunset to illuminate the room.<p>

The flat had few furnishings: a fully stocked kitchen, a king sized bed, and a wardrobe made of oak. When he opened the wardrobe he was not surprised to find it empty, but when he turned around something caught his eye beneath the bed. An old shoebox greeted him as he knelt down beside the bed. As he pulled it towards him and blew away the dust Sherlock could see the box must have been ten years old. He took off the top carefully, and was surprised to see his own face staring up at him.

The box was filled with photos and letters. Most of them were of or from their mother, but he was shocked to find quite a few photos of himself in the mix as well. All from their childhood, of course. He had never known his brother to be so sentimental.

As he shuffled through the letters Sherlock noticed that the box was heavier than it should have been. It didn't take long before his fingers found the small box hidden beneath the memorabilia, and he smirked as he pulled out a package of cigarettes.

* * *

><p>It only took a couple of days for the cigarettes to be gone. The sun rose and set again as Sherlock paced the room, completely at a loss. He had searched through his brother's things, curious as to what else he had stashed in the flat, but found nothing. The box of photos and letters remained untouched on the floor. Though his brother may have been sentimental he was not. He couldn't bring himself to care about these letters which were probably written about him- complaining about him. There was nothing else in the flat that interest him, and the city below was far too chaotic for his liking. For days he simply paced the floor of the flat and turned on the television, studying the news as though it were a textbook.<p>

As days turned into a week and a week turned into two weeks Sherlock grew restless. It was like this was some sort of punishment. Whatever Mycroft had to work out with the government, he knew it should not have taken so long. His brother was leaving him to this solitary confinement out of spite.

One evening he fell asleep on the cold hardwood floors. That night flashbacks followed him into his dreams. He tossed and turned on the floor, the television playing softly in the background as he recalled:

_ A gunshot. Piercing through the dark alleyway, sending him tumbling back with such a force that he forgot he was not the one who had been hit. A moan of pain. Malone- Moran, screaming nonsense, the gun flailing about. Moran, shaking him, slapping his cheek to bring him back to his senses. Telling him they'd have to run. Sirens. A policeman, taking him by the shoulders. It was going to be okay. _

_ A knife to his throat. A punch to the eye. Someone tugging at the bag he was carrying, warning him not to call the police. _

_ Moran, screaming at him. _

_ "What do you mean it's gone?"_

_ His angry words echoed so harshly through the empty that they sent a shiver down Sherlock's spine. Hands stuffed deeply into his pockets, Sherlock desperately wished he still had the knife the muggers stole. _

_ "All of its gone?" Moran said. Sherlock nodded, taking a subconscious step back as Moran spun around towards him, finally ending his senseless pacing. He relaxed a little as Moran raised a hand to his own forehead, rubbing his face as he thought quickly. As though this were life or death. "Okay, so it's still early. Who else do we know?" _

_ Sherlock remained silent, unsure of what to say. He didn't have any leads, any information at all. After their deal the other day, they were supposed to be set for awhile. The drugs were the least of his problems as the cut on his neck was suddenly searing in pain. He could hardly see Moran clearly through his swollen eye; it was difficult to keep track of Moran's unpredictable behavior._

_ "Sherlock!" Moran shouted. "You told me –"_

_ "Yeah, well that plan's been shot now, hasn't it?" He said, and then mocked: "'I'm glad you're alive, by the way! Sorry someone took all of your stuff'."_

_ "You'll wish you were dead by morning," Moran warned, "I can't go through this –"_

_ Taking a deep breath, Sherlock debated rather or not he should admit what he wasn't saying. Part of him wanted to stop helping Moran. He was becoming a bit intimidating. There were multiple nights when Moran had shot awake from sleep, waving his gun madly. There had been several near-misses when Sherlock woke up to the shouting. He never knew if Moran was having flashbacks, or if he had simply become that paranoid, but Sherlock was growing more and more paranoid himself the more he was around the man. Yet he knew he couldn't just run away and leave him alone. Moran would probably shoot him before he could reach the door. _

_ "Okay, I know someone else," he finally admitted, recalling someone he had met the day before, who had been all too willing to offer Sherlock his help were he to ever need it, "I can take you to him."_

_ Moran grinned, a twisted, cold smile as he stepped forward and placed a clammy hand on Sherlock's shoulder. His eyes were already drawn and watering; face already sweating uncontrollably. Moran laughed a little, purely out of anxiety it seemed. _

_ "You're a good man, Sherlock."_

* * *

><p><em> "You know what the deal is." <em>

_ The man's name was George. Simply George. He lived underneath a bridge near the river; it had been all too easy to find him, but of course Moran was complicating things by trying to negotiate. _

_ "Yeah, well the thing is my mate's had a bit of a bad day," Moran said, nodding to Sherlock. Sherlock bit his lip, holding himself back from complaining about Moran dragging him into this. "Got himself robbed. A bit injured. He's got nothing left so I thought maybe you could help us out, of the kindness of your heart –"_

_ George laughed and took a threatening step towards the two. For once, Sherlock was grateful that he knew Moran secretly had his gun hidden in his coat. _

_ "Look, mate, if you don't want to make the deal then there are plenty of others –"_

_ "Just please, listen –"_

_ Sherlock couldn't help but to be embarrassed; even he had never sounded as pathetic as Moran did now. _

_ "No, you listen."_

_ George quickly reached into his pocket. Sherlock readied himself to raise his hands in the air, heart pounding as he waited to be met with a gun in his face. But instead something else was being held in front of him._

_ A police badge._

_ He immediately raised his hands, taking a step back to give the police officer some space. His heart was beating so madly that he thought he might explode. A sickening feeling crawled up his throat and a dizziness overtook him as anxiety engulfed him._

_ Moran's eyes widened with fury. Sherlock wasn't sure who intimidated him more at that moment – Moran or the policeman. _

_ "He's a policeman?" Moran shouted. "He's a bloody policeman!"_

_ "I didn't know!" Sherlock exclaimed. _

_ "This was a set up!" Moran said. "You've been acting very suspicious lately! They paid you, did they? So that I can get caught?"_

_ He noticed Moran's fingers inching toward the gun in his coat pocket, and Sherlock took a step away from both men. George- or whatever his name really was- was calling for backup. _

_ "I didn't know, I swear!" Sherlock said, taking another step back._

_ A gun was pointed at his face._

_ "I swear!" He shouted over the distant wailing of police sirens. "We're in this together. I'm about to be arrested too."_

_ "I'm not getting arrested."_

_ Suddenly he was out of the line of fire and Moran swirled around. _

_ A gunshot. Piercing through the dark alleyway, sending him tumbling back with such a force that he forgot he was not the one who had been hit. A moan of pain. Moran, screaming nonsense, the gun flailing about. Moran, shaking him, slapping his cheek to bring him back to his senses. Telling him they'd have to run. Sirens. A policeman, taking him by the shoulders. It was going to be okay. Stumbling backwards still, falling to his feet. Head spinning, ears ringing. Moran shouting as he was put into handcuffs. Cool metal closing around his wrists as well._

_ "Just a precaution," the officer reassures him._

_ It sounds like he's not being arrested. He didn't pull the trigger. He didn't even make a deal. He had nothing on him, nothing, because everything had been stolen from him that afternoon. Outside the darkness was falling around them, heavily, he felt like it was taking over him...the officer asked him if he was alright. He could only shake his head._

* * *

><p><em> His eyes shot open as he sat up straight, heart racing as he was knocked out of the series of nightmares. Running a hand through his hair Sherlock trembled, suddenly feeling very cold. He was on the ground; the table and chairs had been put back into place. Mycroft sat in one of the chairs, at the table, staring at him from where he had been writing something. The empty take-away bags from lunch had been torn to shreds and sprinkled onto the ground. A new plate of food waited for him. He wondered how long he had been asleep, it felt odd after not having slept for days. <em>

_ "I can see you ate," Mycroft said, "I brought you some more, if you're hungry." _

_ Sherlock didn't reply. Instead he stared straight forward, trying to wrap his mind around the nightmare he just experienced. It was like relieving the whole night, over and over again. The same loop of dreams, haunting him, coming to life so that he could feel every moment of fear; hear every drop of water from leaky pipes, from the roaring river by the bridge. Hearing the gunshot that left him with ringing ears as he awoke. _

_ "You really should drink something, Sherlock," Mycroft warned, "you're making yourself dehydrated."_

_ A glass of water appeared in front of him, and Sherlock accepted. When he tried to speak his mouth felt too dry to form words, and he admitted the cool water was a relief from the burning pain lingering in the back of his throat. Reaching up, he scratched at the scar that was healing nicely on his neck. He rested his back against the wall, and Mycroft sat across from him. It was odd, seeing his brother, older than him by seven years and a member of some highly important government office, lounging so casually on the floor. _

_ "When we brought you here you told someone on the staff that you couldn't remember what happened," Mycroft began, "was that true?"_

_ Sherlock didn't reply. Of course he could remember. He hadn't sustained a bad head injury. He hadn't been injured at all, apart from the minor injuries from the mugging. _

_ "It would be helpful to tell me what you're going through," Mycroft said, "it will help determine how we should proceed." _

_ Still no reply. Looking down, he noticed the bruises on his brother's hands fading. Instead there were red spots decorating his fingers from the monotonous act of filling out paper work._

_ "I just got word that the police officer is in stable condition," Mycroft said. A great relief washed over him, shedding away a layer of anxiety. "No charges are being filed against you." His brother took out a business card and handed it to him. "The officer I talked to left his card with me. He said to not hesitate if you needed anything."_

_ Sherlock stared at the name on the card: D.I. Lestrade. Recently promoted, he could tell by the printing of the card. He turned the card over. A mobile number was written on the back. _

_ "Can he help get me out of here?" Sherlock mumbled._

_ His brother laughed, and he echoed the laugh, feeling uneasy. He was only half-joking. He was ready to leave this place, wherever he was. Rehab didn't exactly sound appealing at the moment, but he felt a longing to be alone – truly alone. He just wanted to have a long, dreamless sleep and forget about the night before. _

_ "When was your last fix?" Mycroft asked. He looked up at his brother; the comment caught him off-guard. He preferred not to talk about his habits with his brother. Mycroft would never understand, could never understand, his life choices. He always just tried to fix everything, but he never seemed to notice that he was missing what the real problem was. "The doctor found traces of cocaine in your system. I imagine not within twelve hours of last night's incident, which is why withdrawal has hit you particularly hard today."_

_ Sherlock still did not reply. Mycroft leaned forward, and as Sherlock met his eyes he was surprised to see that the walls behind them were slowing breaking down. Due to exhaustion, desperation, worry – fear, perhaps, his brother seemed genuinely concerned. _

_ "I know you don't live this way because you're helpless," Mycroft said, "for whatever reason you think this helps you. You think it's beneficial. Sherlock, you should have seen your medical report. You're marching towards death. Lack of sleep, lack of nutrition. Neglecting yourself. Poor hygiene, to say the least." Mycroft smirked, and Sherlock let a small smile slip at the corners of his lips. He knew he smelled and looked awful. "I want to believe you when you say you're not an addict. So prove it to me."_

_ Sherlock looked away, feeling as though once again Mycroft were missing the most important point._

_ "Why do I always have to prove myself to you?"_

_ Mycroft shrugged._

_ "I'm all you have," his brother replied quietly. There was a moment of awkward silence between them; rarely did their conversations get this personal. If they dared to go into the past things never ended well. "I haven't told Mother I found you."_

_ Sherlock rolled his eyes._

_ "You say 'found me' as if you haven't been following me all these years," he replied._

_ Mycroft looked down, obviously holding back the urge to argue. _

_ "I regret what has happened between us, Sherlock," Mycroft said, managing to maintain sincerity. "I deeply regret that we have only spoken a couple of times in the past two years. I wish I had been there for you."_

_ "You've been there for me enough," Sherlock snapped. _

_ He suddenly jumped to his feet, feeling like he needed to be protective of himself. Mycroft got to his feet as well, looking lost and confused, as though he didn't know where the conversation went wrong._

_ "Stop trying to fix me!" Sherlock exclaimed. "Stop being so damn proud. You don't have to live in guilt. I don't blame you for everything. Just – stop!"_

_ He wasn't sure what convinced him this was a good idea, but he found himself shoving Mycroft back a few feet. His brother tried not to look effected. Perhaps it was for that very reason that his fist swung forward, knocking against Mycroft's jaw. Struggling to catch his breath, Sherlock took a step back. Suddenly he felt as though he didn't know where he was. He couldn't explain his actions, but he didn't want to apologize either. Mycroft simply rubbed his jaw and looked away; it was almost as though he had expected this. _

_ "I've begun the paperwork to send you to a rehab facility." _

_ Sherlock began to panic; his heart racing in fear as he realized his brother must have decided this as a result of the attack. _

_ "Mycroft –"_

_ "You need this, Sherlock, more than you know," he said, "I do wish you would realize that."_

_ With that Mycroft stormed away, gathering his paperwork as he left the room. Sherlock rushed after him, hoping to catch the door before it closed, but instead the door slammed in his face with a harsh, dramatic echo that left him once again recalling the bullet from the night before. Closing his eyes, Sherlock pounded against the door. _

_ "Mycroft!" He cried. "Mycroft, I'm sorry!"_

_ He wasn't sure if he had ever said those words to his brother in his life. Mycroft must not have believed him, for when Sherlock opened his eyes he could see through the window Mycroft walking away. He continued to pound on the door, though he knew it was useless, until his hand was too weak to continue. Sliding to the floor, he held his head in his hands for a brief moment. Then he took out the business card again, staring at the detective's contact information. He rested his head against the door, trying to let all of his emotions pass through him. Then he would be able to close his eyes and at last fall asleep again, and convince himself the nightmares would not return._


	8. Chapter 8

Author's Note: I am SO sorry for the delay in updating! These past two weeks have been very hectic, filled with finals, graduation, and work. Trust me, I would have much rather been writing than doing all of that studying! Now all of that is over with, and I should have much more time to write! This chapter is short, but I wanted to post _something_. I still have every intention of finishing this story!

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><p>Sherlock woke to a dark flat one night during his third week in Dubai. Eyes blinking in confusion, he tried to remember falling asleep. For the past week he had remained awake, pacing the floor as he awaited the appearance of Mycroft. Last he remembered, he was laying on hardwood floors, staring at the ceiling, with daylight illuminating the room. Not laying in a bed, a mess of sheets and pillows surrounding him, as though he had tossed in turned all night. He didn't even feel like had gotten any rest.<p>

There was no clock in flat, but judging by the silence of the building and the stillness of the city below he assumed it was well past midnight. Shaking his head, Sherlock tried to rid himself of the empty haze that followed him from his uneasy rest.

A hoarse cough interrupted the night's silence. His eyes flew open and shot towards the source of the sound:

Mycroft.

Perched in the seat by the window, arm rested over his knees and a half-empty glass in his hand, was his brother. Though he must have been aware that his brother was awake, Mycroft's eyes remained glued to the window beside him.

"A safe-house in Dubai?" Sherlock said as he stepped out of the bed. This earned a smirk from his brother as he headed to the kitchen and began to pour himself a drink. "You never fail to impress, Mycroft."

He took a seat across from his brother and stared at him, but Mycroft still refused to meet him in the eye. His brother looked as though he weren't even aware that he had left London. Gazing at his drink, Mycroft let out a deep sigh before admitting:

"I saw John Watson yesterday." Sherlock froze and sat silent as Mycroft explained: "He came by to give me the key to the Baker Street flat."

Sherlock blinked, startled by the sudden mention of John. Each day he was able to keep himself sane by thinking of his life in London and knowing that when his work was done, he would be able to return. Yet he thought little of the repercussions of his stunt at St. Bart's. The thought of people remaining behind in London, mourning him, seemed absurd. The thought that anything would change because of him being gone just seemed wrong.

"John's leaving?" Sherlock asked.

Mycroft looked at him, that familiar glare he recognized from many scenarios from when they were younger. It was the kind of look that told him he was missing the obvious, that told him he was stupid for not thinking something could be wrong with John.

"He thinks he saw his best friend commit suicide," Mycroft replied dryly, "I'm surprised he's still in London. It took him two months to be able to go back to Baker Street, and since he has hardly left. He quit his job, he's ignoring his sister, and he stopped going to therapy."

"Good," Sherlock shot. His eyes drifted to the window, focusing in on the building adjacent to theirs. A couple on the tenth story were arguing. Contemplating divorce. A likely possibility. On the twelve floor a woman was sobbing as she gazed out the window, almost to the exact spot Sherlock was sitting. He looked back to Mycroft. "His therapist was terrible."

A small smile escaped Mycroft, and his brother continued:

"I offered to pay off the rest of the lease, but he refused."

A moment of silence past. He was surprised that the thought of his flat being abandoned and empty terrified him. What if he returned to London and nothing was left? What if John didn't understand why this had to happen?

"Where was he going to go?" Sherlock asked.

"I don't know."

"You're lying," Sherlock shot, "you've been following him this entire time."

"Only out of concern for his safety."

Sherlock paused, surprised at his brother's sincerity.

"Lestrade?" He asked. Mycroft nodded. "And Mrs. Hudson?"

"She's moved in with her sister in Scotland, and yes."

"Mrs. Hudson left Baker Street?" He said, his voice an echo as a pit fell in his stomach.

While he was running around the world, making little progress, everyone else was moving on. Things were changing, and he wasn't there to control it.

"She stayed for awhile, mainly to keep an eye on John, I think," Mycroft said, "but she just couldn't bare the thought of what happened."

"I suppose Lestrade's moving too?" Sherlock snapped, his fingers tapping rapidly against his knees in restless frustration.

"Lestrade was on suspension for awhile," Mycroft said. "He's back, but he is handling everything badly."

It was one of the few times he was speechless. Though he gave Lestrade a hard time he had always admired the man, not only because he was one of the few decent detectives left but because of their past. Knowing that he had nearly cost Lestrade his job- not to mention his reputation- angered him more than anything.

"Is that why you're here, then?" Sherlock said. "To make me feel guilty?"

"No, I just want you to know what's at stake," Mycroft said, "you're messing with people's lives, Sherlock."

Sherlock refused to admit that his brother was right.

"Did you get everything sorted out?" He asked instead. "Three weeks, Mycroft! _Three!_"

"Unfortunately my entire life cannot revolve around you, Sherlock," Mycroft replied.

"Please tell me that this lapse in time means that Tyler is no longer in America."

Mycroft smirked. Reaching into his pocket, Mycroft pulled out a plane ticket.

"I can see you found all my cigarettes," Mycroft said. He shoved the plane ticket towards him, and without saying anymore about the subject, he continued: "We have a plane to catch."


	9. Chapter 9

Author's note: Thank you to everyone who is still reading! I apologize again for the wait. I promise you that it is not because I don't want to continue with the story. Life is still pretty crazy right now so I haven't been able to write as much as I hoped. So if there is ever another wait for a new chapter just know that it is not me just not wanting to write! To make up for the wait this chapter is longer.

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><p>The sun was setting in Reno, Nevada, but the air was still warm and inside rental car it was even hotter. The anticipation of their mission did not help his restlessness as Sherlock's fingers tapped uncontrollably against the binoculars. Mycroft sighed heavily beside him, though he did not take his eyes from his mobile in his hands.<p>

"Who are you texting?" Sherlock demanded. "I thought you told your staff you were going on holiday."

Mycroft smirked.

"Sherlock in all of my years of working with the government I have never once gone on holiday," Mycroft said, "they believe I am on special assignment with the United States government."

"You still haven't answered my question," Sherlock pointed out.

Mycroft sighed again.

"I'm confirming information for your next assignment."

"Yes, it would be nice to know that the person I am about to murder is actually the person I should be murdering," Sherlock muttered, bringing the binoculars back to his eyes.

Mycroft sat his phone down, and an uncomfortable silence signaled that he had struck a nerve.

"I don't like this, you know," Mycroft spoke softly, "this isn't your responsibility."

Sherlock paused; his finger twitched as he held the binoculars close.

"John would die-"

"John is living in complete misery in England," Mycroft replied, "if you think you're doing him a favor by making him think you're dead, you are wrong."

"This is bigger than just John," Sherlock pointed out, "Moran has been behind this the entire time. He's planning something- he has probably already done more than we could have ever imagined. This is bigger than anything we could have imagined. This is more than just playing detective and solving cases for the police."

"Exactly-"

"Stop."

He slowly brought down the binoculars and glanced towards his brother, though he refused to meet his eyes. He was tired of having this conversation. The amount of guilt Mycroft had been trying to place on him was exhausting.

"You and I both know that I had no choice," Sherlock said, his voice falling to nearly a whisper, "you are just unable to accept it."

"I'm unable to accept that my brother has turned into a murderer."

Mycroft immediately fell silent and closed his eyes in regret. Sherlock hesitated to reply, but he didn't have to as the sound of a car door slamming nearby broke the silence.

"There's Tyler," Sherlock said.

Both pairs of eyes flashed towards Tyler- a large, tall American who was storming towards the back entrance of the warehouse they were parked out of.

"You go-"

Sherlock sighed dramatically, interrupting his brother. Mycroft rolled his eyes and allowed him to speak instead.

"I'll go around the back, and you go around the front," Sherlock said, smirking, as he knew this was exactly what Mycroft would have said.

"Yes, and don't do anything until I meet up with you," Mycroft said.

Sherlock was surprised to see how cold Mycroft's eyes were. His determination matched that Sherlock was used to seeing with his brother's government work. He remembered many days during the agonizing times he was forced to stay with him as an adult when his brother would come home, his eyes glazed with defeat. He would say nothing as he just sat, silently, and drink. A similar look crossed his brother at that moment.

"How do you know Tyler?" Sherlock asked. "You never explained."

Looking down, Mycroft focused on loading his gun as he replied:

"He once made an attempt on my life."

Sherlock stared at him, startled. Somehow, after all this time of pointing out how in danger he and his friends had been because of Moriarty and Moran, he never considered that with the nature of his job Mycroft's life was probably in danger every day. Although he rarely went out into the field and did took the orders himself, he would be the one of the first that people would look to were someone to find out who was behind those orders.

"You never told me someone tried to kill you," Sherlock said.

"You never asked," Mycroft said, and after a brief pause added: "and you weren't around to ask."

He nodded, understanding, but remained silent to avoid any further discussion. Yet Mycroft continued:

"It was a complicated scenario, and that is certainly not the only reason that he is a person of interest. This is not a personal mission of mine, and it should not be for you as well."

"I have no connection with Tyler."

Tyler was simply one in a list of names Mycroft was able to provide him. He was not immediately involved that day at St. Bart's, but Mycroft had been all too eager to include him in the mission.

"He was one of the men at the pool," Mycroft explained.

Sherlock looked away, his eyes falling back to Tyler as he thought back to that night. There were certain moments in his life when he could remember feeling inches from death. There were certain moments that he would never be able to delete from his memory. That night, that first confronation with Moriarty, would forever be one of those moments. He could still remember the terror in John's eyes, along with the readiness to do whatever it would take to stop Moriarty. The man he was staring at now was behind one of those dancing red dots that had threatened their lives- and at one point his brother's as well.

"Are you ready?"

His brother's words broke the silence, forcing Sherlock back to the present. Nodding, Sherlock stepped out of the vehicle just as Tyler entered the building.

He carefully made his way around the back of the building while Mycroft lingered out front to follow Tyler through the entrance. The back of the warehouse was quiet and even emptier than out front. A few stray boxes were the only signs that there had ever been life in the building. That was, until he noticed the footsteps in the dirt near a path by the dumpsters. Staying close to the walls, Sherlock rounded the corner and cautiously opened the backdoor just enough to make sure the corridor was clear.

There was no power inside, and Sherlock withdrew the torch he brought as he made his way down the corridor. A few locked doors and a dust-coated floor told him no one had recently walked down this way. This side of the building was not too large, and he knew that there would not be that much space to cover before meeting his brother.

A distant creak of a door set his heart racing. The footsteps were too heavy to be his brother's, and a second set of echoes told him that they were not alone with Tyler.

He lowered the light and crept closer to the walls, trying to step as lightly as he could while moving as quickly as he could. With only a vague knowledge of the building's layout Sherlock knew there was only one alternate corridor to take, but he hesitated when he reached the exit door- the handle was littered with fingerprints.

"Hello again, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock swirled around to see Tyler standing with a group of men, one of whom was holding onto Mycroft- who was sporting a swollen lip.

His eyes met his brother's only briefly before something sharp connected with the side of his head and darkness overwhelmed him.

"That worked out well."

"Sherlock-"

Sherlock's laughter echoed through the empty warehouse as he ignored his brother. His vision was blurred with his own blood, but he could see that they were being kept in an office. The door was shut, and only the shadow of an emergency light streamed through the crack beneath the door. His hands were tied behind him along with his brother's and had long since fallen numb. Mycroft's rough, uneven, breaths told him his brother had yet to recover from their struggle with Tyler.

"I'm so glad that I had my dear brother there to protect me!" Sherlock shot. "I'm grateful that we are in this together. Really, I am."

He shook his head in disbelief, trying to ignore the pounding in his brain. With a sigh, Mycroft replied:

"How's your head?"

"It's fine."

He could picture his brother rolling his eyes, not believing him for a moment.

"He hit you with a crowbar!"

"It's _fine_!"

Silence.

He wasn't fine, but the anger cloaked the pain as his eyes dashed around, searching for any means of escape. Tyler would return any moment, with his "friends". They would be outnumbered, not only in the sense that Tyler weighed more than both he and his brother combined, but Tyler would have more men as well. No one knew Sherlock was even alive, and no one knew where Mycroft was really going to be.

"I'm going to try to untie the knot," Mycroft said, "keep still."

"Tyler's coming."

His brother immediately fell silent. Sherlock watched as shadows of footsteps stormed towards the office. When the light switched on Sherlock couldn't help but to groan in pain, wincing at the sudden brightness that obscured his already poor vision. Tyler laughed. He stood before him along with a woman in her late thirties and an older man, a Russian of around 50 years of age, by the looks of it.

"We've got ourselves a couple of Holmes boys," Tyler said, "their reputation does not proceed them. Resilient, cunning, clever? I don't know what kind of game they're playing in London, but I would be ashamed to be Moriarty, knowing it was these boys who posed a threat. Then again, Moriarty's out of the picture, isn't he? Anything to say for yourself, _Sherlock_?" Tyler knelt down in front of him, his eyes twinkling in amusement as the crowbar, still stained with Sherlock's blood, tapped against his palm. "It's a shame, no one's going to believe me when I tell them I was the one who killed Sherlock Holmes. Any final, final words?"

Sherlock studied him, wishing he had taken Mycroft more seriously when he warned him of how resilient Tyler himself was. He smirked as he replied:

"What is it about American accents that makes people sound so _arrogant_?"

Tyler's face suddenly turned red, but behind him, Mycroft was finally making progress in managing to untie the knot that was binding them together. Sherlock felt it necessary to get in at least one insult before he had to fight off Tyler once more. Though he felt the rope loosen around his hands, he couldn't help but to flinch as Tyler raised the crowbar, ready to hit Sherlock once again when Mycroft leapt up behind him. Sherlock sprung forward, narrowly missing a collision with the crowbar as he tackled the woman to the ground. Stunned, she immediately dropped her gun, and Sherlock grabbed it instantly, spinning around just in time to startle Tyler before he attacked Mycroft.

* * *

><p>An hour later he and Mycroft sat in silence their rental car. The empty desert stared back at them, and the cool night air provided fresh relief from the stuffy warehouse. Mycroft was attempting to stitch up the wound on the side of Sherlock's face- a laughable task as they only had the car's light and a small first aid kit Mycroft had been able to acquire for help.<p>

"_Sit_ _still_," Mycroft ordered. Sherlock rolled his eyes, fidgeting with restlessness.

"What medical knowledge are you using for this?" Sherlock said, wincing as he felt a sharp tug at his skin. "Your love for medical dramas?"

"No. I was required to take a first aid course as part of training when I first started working with the government."

Considering that Mycroft had been working with the government for nearly fifteen years this thought was even more frightening.

"Wonderful," Sherlock muttered.

A moment of silence passed as Mycroft continued to work on the wound. Sherlock had insisted that he was fine, deciding that he would rather deal with an unattended head wound than have his brother attempt to play doctor. He had hardly been comfortable with John attempting to tend to his wounds, but that choice was always more appealing than being checked into a hospital. The same look of concern John always wore appeared on his brother's face now, mixed with wrinkles of frustration.

"Do you remember when you were nine and you fell down that flight of stairs?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock's eyes flashed towards his brother in surprise as the memory played out clearly in his mind. As much as he tried to push away the memory, it was the first incident he could remember when he truly felt pain for the first time. He could still hear the crack of his ankle and feel the shock overwhelm him. He felt ridiculous, being so affected by a mere memory, but it was one of those last childhood memories which clung to his mind.

"Of course," Sherlock replied.

"You managed to hide your injury from Mummy for a week before the sprain was so bad you came home one day in tears," Mycroft said. "That was the first time I helped you conspire against her."

"Only because you were with me when it happened, and you knew she would blame you more than me," Sherlock said.

Mycroft smirked but didn't reply. Sherlock took the pause to mean that Mycroft had brought up the story for a reason, and not just for a cute conversation about their childhood.

"How is Mother?" Sherlock asked, his voice flat.

When it came to their family Sherlock rarely felt any emotion, but when it came to their mother he was overwhelmed with guilt. He knew he had disappointed her- destroyed her- with his choices, and he knew he owed her a lifetime of apologizes. But even when he began to turn his life around he couldn't bring himself to admit that he had been wrong.

"Don't pretend to care, it's not even Christmas."

For years he had refused to admit even to himself that he was a terrible son; for years he had pretended that it didn't matter. But at the mention of their mother he could see Mycroft's eyes growing softer, retreating at the thought of the pain their mother must have been going through.

Mycroft tugged at the needle and thread with more force, channeling his anger into a sharp wave of pain. Sherlock focused on a particular spot in the desert, refusing to allow any pain to show.

"Her cancer is back," Mycroft admitted softly.

Sherlock froze as a sickening bile settled in his throat. His brother refused to look at him as he continued to finish patching up the wound. Using bottled water he wiped away the last drops of blood; Sherlock welcomed the cool drops that trickled down his cheek as his heart began to pound.

"How bad?" He asked.

"It's cancer."

Sherlock swallowed and would only ever admit to himself how much it terrified him to ask:

"How long?"

"Six to twelve months."

With one final tug at his skin Mycroft finally sat back, his eyes examining his work.

"It'll do," his brother said, "you'll be perfectly fine. Let me know if you get any headaches-"

His hand clasped around Mycroft's arm, demanding his attention. Mycroft studied him, startled, but Sherlock refused to explain himself. With a deep sigh Mycroft tilted his head, as though summoning the right words, and Sherlock let go.

"You should have told me," Sherlock stated quietly.

"She thinks you're dead," Mycroft shot, "it's not for you to worry about."

Even as anger swelled in him, he had to admit that his brother's comment was not completely uncalled-for. It was his fault that so much pain had been brought onto his family. Even with the unpleasant relationship between he and his mother it had only briefly crossed his mind that his death- even a fake death- would take its toll on her. And now to deal with that on top of cancer-

"I have the best doctors working on her," Mycroft assured.

An uneasy nervousness took over him. The only other time Mycroft had sounded this empathetic was when their grandfather was ill when he was seven and Mycroft was fourteen. After promising that everything would be alright, his grandfather- the only member of the family he had ever truly gotten along with- passed away a few months later. Though it was ridiculous to blame the death on Mycroft, and though he knew now that it was unfair to try to place any kind of guilt on his brother, he couldn't help but to connect the two moments.

"There's a possibility-"

"It's fine," Sherlock interrupted, "people grow old. They get sick. They die."

"That's a nice way to talk about your mother."

Sherlock clenched his fist, restraining himself from the urge to punch Mycroft in the face.

"She's under the best care," Mycroft said, only managing to whisper. After a brief pause, he admitted: "It is you I worry about. Tyler left us alone for approximately ten minutes. He could have informed anyone that you were still alive."

"Good thing I nicked his mobile, then."

When Sherlock revealed the phone that he had been hiding in his pocket his brother was obviously fighting the temptation to smile. In seconds he had the mobile turned on and was locating recent calls, texts, and internet usage.

"It looks like he dialed a number in Ireland," Sherlock announced.

Mycroft shifted in the driver's seat, but did not explain the look of unease that appeared. Sherlock didn't press for more details, but the thought of his brother recognizing the importance of the nation did not soothe him.

"I will look into it," Mycroft said, holding out his hand.

Sighing, Sherlock gave up the mobile, knowing that it was true that his brother would have more capability to find the information.

"In the meantime I have confirmed the location of another one of Moriarty's crew," Mycroft continued. "Emily Dubois is in New Jersey." Sherlock groaned loudly in disapproval; he had already been in America a day too long. "Dubois is an alias, and we have never received a photo identity. We do not know her real name."

"What would I ever do without your help?" Sherlock mumbled as he accepted the file Mycroft handed him.

The file was even thicker than Tyler's, containing reports of dozens of international crimes and murders that Dubois was connected with. The reports were detailed, signaling that Dubois was another special case of Mycroft's.

"Dubois will only be in New Jersey for a short period of time," Mycroft said, "what little we do know about her is that her parents still reside in New Jersey. Her mother has fallen ill, and it is likely that despite her place on international most wanted list she would be willing to do whatever it took to visit her."

Sherlock shot Mycroft a cold glare, and when his eyes met his brother's he felt like he could confirm that he was being given this assignment now as punishment to the way he had treated his own mother.

Mycroft handed him a pack of ice, which Sherlock reluctantly accepted as he scanned the file. Offenses in Brazil, China, Argentina, Italy. There were multiple instances of near-success of putting Dubois on trial, but the criminal had escaped before each attempt.

"I'm staying with you until tomorrow night," Mycroft announced.

"No."

"Sherlock-"

"No."

Sherlock snapped the file shut and glared out the window, the bag of ice lingering in his hand.

"Stop acting like a child," Mycroft snapped, "notice how I haven't even mentioned the fact that you nearly got us killed."

"But you did not hesitate to bring up this _fact_ anyway."

"You just had to insult Tyler-"

"Can you let it go, just for once, Mycroft?" He said, sinking down into his seat. America was already boring him. "I was doing perfectly fine until you insisted on tagging along. "

"Mind you, I was the one who managed to untie us," Mycroft pointed out.

"That's because I taught you how when I was eight," Sherlock said.

They each managed a small grin, and Mycroft replied with amusement:

"Yes, Mother was rather angry at us that day, wasn't she?"

"She banned me from watching telly for the rest of the summer."

"She thought it was a bad influence on you," Mycroft said, "I wonder if she would be proud now."

Mycroft looked away, and Sherlock shifted in his seat, feeling uncomfortable as he noticed his brother's eyes sinking into guilt. Mycroft busied himself by admiring his own injuries- a wrist that was stained with rough burns from the rope. He also noticed bruises on his brother's jaw and under his eye, signs of his unsuccessful fight with Tyler.

"Is your hand alright?" Sherlock asked at last. "You keep messing with it."

Mycroft immediately hid his wrist but flinched ever so slightly in pain when the fabric of his worn suit jacket brushed against his skin.

"It's fine," Mycroft said, echoing Sherlock's earlier lie.

Both sat in silence as they stared out into the empty desert. The clock in the car ticked closer to midnight. As a sudden wave of pain washed over him Sherlock raised the bag of ice to his head, giving in as he accepted that he would need to be in peak condition to handle the next assignment.

What he wanted to admit was that he didn't like this as much as Mycroft didn't like this. Each _assignment_ sent a shock of overwhelming exhaustion into his system, which he knew was just a cover for the guilt and unease he should be feeling. The traveling was beginning to irk him, and having to take direction from his brother was making this task even more impossible.

Yet his brother was his only connection to his life in London. As he thought of John, emptying out their flat on Baker Street, the guilt fought back in, but he pushed it away as he thought of that day at St. Bart's and the thought of someone pointing a gun at John-

"Dubois will only be in New Jersey for a short amount of time," Mycroft repeated. Sherlock snapped out of his thoughts, grateful for the excuse to think about a case. "We can only assume that the moment she detects that someone has found her she will flee the country. She knows there are a number of people who are aware of her place of birth, and therefore it is essential that you get to her as soon as possible. Sherlock, we are talking about a woman who has recently been at the absolute top of Britain's most wanted list. If anyone in the government had even a hint that you were working on this-"

"I know."

All he wanted was a quiet room where he could think and be away from the watchful eye of his brother. If Mycroft wasn't by his side, being as overdramatic and overprotective as ever, he knew these operations could go a lot more smoothly. His brother was about to leave him alone to go to New Jersey, and he knew that this could be his chance to prove himself.

Not that proving himself to his brother was ever something he was concerned about.

"Let's just get out of the desert," Sherlock mumbled, "it's so-"

_Miserable _was the word he was looking for, but when Mycroft interrupted with:

"Boring?"

He couldn't help but to smirk.


	10. Chapter 10

Author's Note: I'm so sorry again for the wait! But here's an extra long chapter, complete with some answers! Sort of. Thanks so much to everyone who is reading and to everyone who is reviewing!

Warnings: Mentions of drug use, violence.

* * *

><p>Mycroft must have had tracking down Emily Dubois to an art. Just as Ethan Tyler had been somewhat of a personal case, his brother clearly had a hidden history with Dubois that Sherlock was not aware of. He could not otherwise explain how Mycroft knew the exact hospital wing in all of New Jersey that Dubois' mother would be in. It only took a half hour of people-watching to spot Dubois in the stream of visitors pouring in for the hospital's afternoon visiting hours.<p>

She was wearing a slick black dress, a _hat, _and sunglasses that hid her face from his point of view. Sherlock easily disappeared into the crowd of people making its way into the lobby. A word of confirmation from the information desk pointed him in the right direction.

Sherlock ignored his aching muscles as he climbed the four flights to the Leukemia ward. He was surprised at how sore he was; somehow between flying across the Atlantic and falling unconscious at the hand of Tyler's crowbar he had lost his stamina. When he reached the top of the stairs he rest his head against the door for a moment, closing his eyes briefly to fight away the pain that was nagging him.

Taking a depth breath, Sherlock pushed open the door. He avoided eye contact with the nurses that passed by him, all giving him curious glances towards the stitches on his forehead and cheek.

At least he saw her once more- Emily Dubois. Hovering by the information desk as the secretary pointed her towards the correct room. He followed her, still unable to see her face, as she made her way down the hallway. There was a familiarity to the way she walked; a kind of confidence, although when she reached the correct doorway she paused, just as he had a moment before, and bowed her head as though saying a quick prayer. She placed her hand on the doorknob-

_And looked right at him._

Sherlock froze, wishing for a brief, hopeful, moment that somehow she didn't see him. But somehow it was like he could see her eyeing him through her sunglasses.

Except now that he was looking directly at her, Sherlock realized that he knew exactly who Emily Dubois was. How could he have missed it before?

As soon as she saw him she spun around, storming through the door. Sherlock followed her, remaining silent as he opened the door and entered the room.

The silence of the room was muffled by the sounds monitors and equipment. A woman in her 60s lie in the bed. He knew she was sleeping, but he couldn't help but to think that she looked so _empty_. A painful lump formed in his throat as he thought of his own mother, lying ill in a bed in London, thinking her youngest son was dead and knowing she would die soon too.

"Something on your mind?"

Startled, Sherlock took a protective step back, his hand hovering over the pocket that held his knife. Looking up, his eyes hardened as they fell on Irene Adler.

"You look so troubled for someone who is about to commit murder," Irene finished, "but surely you wouldn't do such a thing in a hospital room. You know how security is in America- how long before the world realizes that Sherlock Holmes isn't dead?"

He glanced around, overwhelmed by panic at the sound of his real name. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror over the sink, still surprised by his short, light-red hair. After considering that Tyler would have told his contacts everything he had found out about Sherlock he had decided to change his appearance once more.

Irene took a careful step towards him, acknowledging that she understood he was armed. Yet that familiar confident smile spread across her lips as she raised a hand and ran it through his hair.

"You look hideous," Irene said, "but you'll do."

As her hand traveled from the edges of his hair, down his shoulder, and brushed down his arm he struggled to remain frozen, which only seemed to entertain her more.

"You're Emily Dubois."

"An excellent deduction," Irene said. She stepped away from him, instead turning to her mother. "Also known as Ann Paltrow, Catherine Wilson, Sandra Gilbert. The list goes on. I'm sure Mycroft thought he was clever, sending you to kill me."

"Mycroft knows?" He asked, careful to not let his anger show.

Of course Mycroft knew. Mycroft _always_ knew. And the thought that his brother tricked him into traveling all the way across America with the instructions to kill someone he knew personally shook him to the core, tempting him to run out the door, catch the earliest flight to London, and strangle him.

Irene rolled her eyes.

"Oh sweetie…" Irene trailed off with a sympathetic sigh, "if you knew just how much Mycroft knows…"

"What does that mean?" Sherlock demanded.

Irene smiled once more but didn't reply as she turned back to her mother. Silence fell between him, and despite the fuming anger towards his brother and despite the frustration he was feeling for no particular reason towards Irene, he couldn't help but to feel_ sympathetic_ towards her.

Because, in a way, they were in the exact same situation.

"I'm sorry about your mother," he offered.

She shook her head.

"I don't appreciate empty sympathy."

There was a pause, and he debated for a brief moment before blurting out:

"My mother's dying." Irene's eyes flashed towards him, a combination of sorrow, shock, and empathy. He swallowed, wishing he hadn't said anything. Whatever it was about Irene Adler that seemed to make his brain spin in circles was taking a strong effect on him now, and worse he felt as though she could see straight through him. "In London. Cancer. Sorry, I shouldn't have said anything."

Irene nodded.

"Bad timing," she agreed, "considering you came to murder me."

He could feel his cheeks turning red hot in embarrassment.

"I came to track down Emily Dubois," he stated.

"And you were going to kill her in her own mother's hospital room?" Irene said, eyes narrowing. She stepped towards him once more and placed a cold, soft, hand on his cheek. He shuddered ever so slightly, and a smile played once more on her lips. "What's happened to you, Sherlock?"

He didn't reply. He couldn't help but to think back to Mycroft, declaring his disapproval of the person he had become. When he glanced once more into the mirror, Sherlock admitted only to himself that he was hard to recognize not only because of his disguise, but because of the coldness in his eyes. A violent nature had always been a part of him; a natural instinct to do whatever it took to defend himself or the people around him. But the idea that he had grown accustomed to accept this darkness without so much as a second thought was even enough to bother him, if he spared a moment to consider it.

Shaking himself out of it, Sherlock was grateful when Irene continued:

"I only wanted to come by for a quick visit," she explained, "I knew I was taking a risk. I should have known I was hiding from you. What with your brother-" she stopped when his eyebrows shot up in curiosity, "how about we go somewhere less sobering?"

He hesitated, knowing this had to be leading towards a trap. The wheels in his brain spun, working in overdrive as he considered every possible outcome of this scenario. Somehow, each ended with a vision of his body being placed in a body bag-

Suddenly he noticed a small gun poking out of the sweater Irene wore over her dress.

"That wasn't a suggestion."

His hand immediately flew towards his pocket, but she took a step closer to him, her eyes flashing towards the window in the doorway.

"Surely you don't want to make a scene?" She asked.

He didn't answer.

A firm smile rest upon her face.

"Lovely," she replied, "you saw where I left the car. Go."

They didn't speak as Sherlock followed her through the parking garage. When they reached Irene's sedan (_rental, owned for less than a week_) Sherlock paused, meeting her eyes before slipping into the passenger seat.

As always Irene was more complicated to read than anyone he knew, but her eyes always gave her away. Her pupils narrowed and she glanced away momentarily, and a small smile stretched across his face. This wasn't meant to threaten him or hurt him; whatever Irene's endgame was, she was being forced into this. And it seemed that was how it always was.

"Can I ask you something?" He said as he got into the passenger seat.

He ignored how his head spun as he sat down and how when he looked towards Irene her figure crossed twice through his line of vision.

When she didn't reply, he continued:

"When you told me that you knew who was behind Moriarty," he swallowed nervously, reluctant to bring up Moran, knowing the more he discussed him the more she would discover about his past, "how did you know Moran was behind it all?"

Irene stared straight ahead, her eyes falling on the figures of innocent pedestrians, as though she wanted nothing more than to be anywhere except in the car with him at that moment. Instead of replying, she simply ignored him. As Irene started the car a sickening feeling violently swept over him. He could vaguely hear Irene shouting his name as he slumped against the passenger window and closed his eyes, welcoming the serene darkness.

* * *

><p>When he came to he found himself laying on a shabby couch with the smell of mothballs and alcohol suffocating him as he forced his eyes open. Sitting up, he could see through hazy vision that he was in a small flat that was furnished only with the couch he was sitting on, a torn armchair that sat across from it, and a tiny kitchen stocked with rotting cookware.<p>

And beside him, an anxious Irene Adler was staring at him, wide-eyed.

"You didn't tell me you had a concussion," she shot, "you passed out in the car."

"You kidnapped me," he mumbled as he ran a hand through his hair.

He shook his head when he was surprised to find his hair cut short. It took him a moment of thinking to remember changing his appearance. He had been somewhere in the American west…

"Las Vegas?" He wondered out loud to no one in particular.

Irene glanced towards him, disturbed and confused.

"Are you alright?" She asked.

Shaking his head again, he fought to understand. He could remember coming to America with Mycroft, being in the desert at one point, and a Russian woman. But when he tried to string the clues together a haze overcame him. But yet, he managed a smile.

"Yes," he replied, "yes, I feel quite fantastic. Can we get back to the part where you kidnapped me?"

Irene rolled her eyes and stood up, crossing her hands over her chest. He hadn't seen her this vulnerable since Karachi. Her hands shook ever so slightly, further confirming his earlier theory that she wasn't acting of her own will.

The door to the flat opened and as hollow footsteps neared them someone began clapping their hands. Sherlock made to stand but resorted to sitting back when his limbs were too weak to move. It was then that he realized his hands were trapped in handcuffs. He looked to Irene for answers, but she simply smirked.

His eyes trailed back to the door as the clapping stopped. When he saw who had entered the room he froze.

_A gunshot. Piercing through the dark alleyway, sending him tumbling back with such a force that he forgot he was not the one who had been hit. A moan of pain. Moran, screaming nonsense, the gun flailing about. Moran, shaking him, slapping his cheek to bring him back to his senses. Telling him they'd have to run. Sirens. A policeman, taking him by the shoulders. It was going to be okay. Stumbling backwards still, falling to his feet. Head spinning, ears ringing. Moran shouting as he was put into handcuffs. Cool metal closing around his wrists as well._

_"Just a precaution," the officer reassures him._

_One glance to Moran, and he was met with hatred. A deep, sincere, hatred. Sherlock swallowed, and he was suddenly grateful to be surrounded by police officers. Moran's eyes narrowed with warning- a threat._

Sherlock stared as Moran approached him. He hated himself more than ever for feeling so weak. He could only watch as Sebastian Moran glided towards Irene. She looked away, disgusted as he took the gun from her.

"Concussion?" Moran said. "That certainly limits what I can do. We can't put you through too much, can we? What would they say if Sherlock Holmes turned up in a hospital? A dead man walking. Or even better- a morgue. I'm sure Molly Hooper would have some explaining to do."

Sherlock sprung to his feet, his heart pounding, adrenaline shoving away the pain as he glared at Moran.

"Brave, I'll give you that," Moran said, "but stupid. This is the second time Miss Adler has beat you, yes?" Sherlock glanced towards Irene, who still refused to look at him.

Moran laughed, and in a flash a fist left where his hand had been resting in his trouser pocket and flew through the air, knocking against Sherlock's jaw with a force that sent him falling back onto the couch. Before he could recover Moran was on top of him, his hands wrapped around Sherlock's neck. He was choking on his own haggard breaths, his blurry vision igniting a dizzying sensation in his head. He tried to pry Moran's hands away, but the effort only seemed to to make Moran's strength stronger.

"Do you know how many years I spent in prison because of you?"

"This is all for revenge?"

Even as he fought to maintain consciousness, Sherlock couldn't help but to be confused, and his desperation for answers became greater than his efforts to fight back.

"Believe it or not, Mr. Holmes, not everything is about you."

At last Moran let go and shoved him back into the sofa. Fighting for breath, Sherlock ran a hand across his neck, messaging the now-tender skin. Irene was still looking away, looking like a puppet on strings who wasn't aware that they had the free will to run away.

As he regained his breath Sherlock considered Moran's statement. The realization that this was bigger than him- bigger than Moriarty- was beginning to dawn on him-

"What does that mean?" He demanded.

Moran stared at him long and hard with that same hatred, that same threatening darkness. Suddenly Baker Street and John was a fading memory; it might as well have been a dream. Suddenly it was 2006 again, and the small flat in New Jersey was an abandoned warehouse in London. He didn't take his eyes off of Moran as his old _friend_ sat down next to him.

And he couldn't help but to shift, uncomfortable as Moran took out an all-too-familiar needle. Moran smirked as he realized how uncomfortable Sherlock was.

"Oh right, you're clean now," Moran shot, "almost seven years. Impressive." Sherlock didn't blink as Moran took out a cigarette and lit it. He swallowed as the intoxicating scent filled the room and his mind itched at the memory…it took all of his strength not to flinch when Moran handed him a cigarette. "Not even a smoke? Someone's turned their life around. I suppose you would like to know what's going on. Well, unfortunately that's a story for another day. Today, I came here to send you a simple message."

Moran leapt to his feet; Sherlock shifted, determined not to appear threatened though inside, his heart was pounding. He knew how dangerous Moran was, and while he tried not to fear for his own safety he would always think of those he left back in London. Simply because he obeyed Moriarty's endgame did not mean the rules could not change. Once again Moran leaned closer to him, and the twinkle in his eye reminded him of Moriarty.

"If you thought that you could run around the world, killing off my men, without me noticing, then you should consider taking up a different field of work. And if your brother sincerely believes that I don't know he's been tracking me then the prime minister should be very frightened, because his number one man is losing his touch."

"What does this have to do with my brother?" Sherlock shot.

Moran laughed, laughed so hard he took a step back, relaxing a bit as he shook his head.

"'What does this have to do with my brother?'" Moran mocked in a sickening high-pitched voice. Sherlock swallowed, partially wishing he had kept quiet. Moran's eyes narrowed, and his tone darkened. "What does this have to do with Mycroft Holmes? Everything. The amount that Mycroft Holmes knows that the rest of the world- that _you_- doesn't is astounding. Frightening. Now, I'm told that you've recently had a run in Ethan Tyler. Zachary Monroe. Raymond Rodriguez. Have you gotten used to it, Sherlock? The feel of someone else's blood on your hands? Let's stop pretending. This isn't your game."

Sherlock stared at him, shocked. The memory of similar words coming from his brother's mouth had the wheels in his brain turning, sent anger pumping through him, as he realized there must be a connection- as he realized exactly what Moran said next:

"Mycroft Holmes knows more than he is letting on."

Moran spoke in almost a sing-song tone; a sickening tease that sent a shiver up his spine and had his blood boiling. Sherlock struggled to remain calm and appear collected.

"Doesn't he always?" He replied coolly.

Moran's eyes darkened, unamused when Sherlock seemed not be shaken by his teasing. Deep down, years of memories were pouring back to him as he remembered being in the government facility, being held as Mycroft forced him through withdrawal. Being sent to rehab. Being kept in the dark as he knew his brother was questioning Moran- torturing him, most likely…

"I don't want to hurt you, Sherlock," Moran continued. Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I simply want to send your brother a message." Sherlock allowed their eyes to connect. "Stop. He knows what I want. All of this can stop. There's no reason for you to be in bloody America, Sherlock. This has all gotten entirely out of hand. Moriarty was…" Moran laughed once more and rubbed a hand over his eye; obviously he had not slept in awhile- if he even slept at all. "Moriarty was a mistake. Just tell Mycroft Holmes to stop. Tell him to simply do as I say, and all of this can stop. You can go back to London, to John-" Sherlock stiffened at the sound of John's name but did not reply. "Your brother knows Sherlock. Everything. He knows how to end this, so let him."

Moran clapped his hands together, much like Moriarty would have. Sherlock remained still, keeping a straight face, determined to not reveal how shaken he was. Mycroft knew. _Of course_ he did. Mycroft wasn't disturbed that Sherlock had become an assassin out of concern. It was out of guilt. All of this was because somehow, Mycroft had known how to stop Moriarty but never said anything. Never did anything. And here he was, letting him go around, killing these people-

A grin spread across Moran's face, and Sherlock knew he believed he had won. Sherlock stiffened once more as Moran pulled out a syringe and loaded it with a substance he didn't recognize.

"Something tells me you haven't been getting much sleep," Moran said, "a car ride from New Jersey to this old flat doesn't do justice to weeks of insomnia. So here's a little something to help. When you come to, I'll be long gone, and you can get in touch with your brother." He placed a mobile beside him with a familiar number on the screen. "It's been nice to see you again, Sherlock. I wish I could say you look well, but-"

He smirked, and without warning the needle was jammed into his arm. Sherlock flinched violently but had no time to take in the pain as he froze up, his limbs turning limp again as darkness overwhelmed him once more.

* * *

><p>The first thing Sherlock noticed when he woke up next was that his head felt like his brain had grown three times its size. He was certain that if he looked in the mirror his entire head would be swollen. It must have been days since his last memory- talking to someone in a flat in America. Where in America, he couldn't remember. He had flown into the country with Mycroft, he remembered something about Vegas- no, Reno-and…Irene Adler.<p>

Rubbing the back of his head, he felt a knot there. A small knot that was healing from an old wound. When he touched his cheek and forehead it no longer stung from a cut he remembered receiving_. A crow bar_, he thought. But as hard as he tried, he only received a familiar sense of dejavu and being unable to string the clues together.

Sherlock tried to open his eyes, but his vision was too blurry. Someone was calling his name, but the voice seemed too far away to be real. He collapsed back down into the fabric he was laying on, which smelled disgusting, as though it had been stored in an elderly person's home for decades. He could feel hot sunlight pouring in through window, though he was pretty certain the last time he was awake it was night.

A numbing sensation in his arm drew his attention to his left forearm, where Sherlock felt around until his fingers landed on a raw mark. Even without opening his eyes, he recognized it as a mark from a syringe. Something cold landed on his forehead, making him squirm, and strong hands held him still.

His name was being called again, and he fought the dull pain in his neck as he turned towards the voice, opening his eyes ever so slightly. Through a hazy darkness he could make out the blurry form of his brother. Yet his brother didn't smile at the sight of him regaining conscience. Instead, Mycroft Holmes was frowning.

"Sherlock, it's been days," Mycroft said, his voice finally clear.

Sherlock blinked a few times, and at last he could see well enough to discover he was in a one-room flat. From the look of the sun it was morning, and judging by the bags under Mycroft's eyes his brother had indeed been there for multiple days.

"I received a call three days ago," Mycroft explained, "someone simply said 'he needs you'. Do you remember? Who was that, Sherlock? Did you find Dubois?"

Dubois. Dubois…someone he had been after.

And then it hit him. He flinched as he remembered Tyler in the warehouse, coming after him with the crow bar. Mycroft's hand clasped around his arm at the sudden movement, but Sherlock ignored him. He remembered being held hostage,_ twice_. Looking at his hands, he could see the fading red lines where handcuffs had once been. One of those times must have been in Reno. And the other…

New Jersey. Someone dying. _Irene Adler._

Sebastian Moran.

A message, a warning.

None of which he could remember clearly.

Groaning, Sherlock threw himself back into the pillows.

"Where the hell am I?" Sherlock muttered.

He was shocked at how hoarse his voice sounded; he could hardly speak. He gladly accepted the water Mycroft handed him.

"You tell me," Mycroft replied. "I was able to trace the call to this location. I found you unconscious on the couch, in handcuffs, with a new scar on your chin."

Sherlock raised his hand to his jaw, where he could feel the faint jagged line of a scar.

"Do you want to tell me what happened?" Mycroft asked.

His eyes narrowed, and suddenly Sherlock felt like he was a kid again, being interrogated by his older brother. Shaking his head, Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to remember.

"Is that a no you don't want to tell me, or a no you can't remember?"

Sherlock opened his eyes and glared at him.

"I see," Mycroft said quietly, "Sherlock, memory loss is serious-"

"Don't interrogate me, Mycroft," Sherlock shot, "I'm perfectly fine. I was drugged, that's all."

"'That's all?'" Mycroft repeated with a smirk. "Sherlock, you already had a serious head wound when you arrived in New Jersey. You've fallen unconscious at least twice that I know of in the past two weeks, but I'm assuming at least three since someone had to carry you here. You've been drugged heavily, and-"

"New Jersey?" Sherlock asked. "What was I doing in New Jersey?"

Sighing, Mycroft closed his eyes, folding his hands together and resting them on his chin before replying calmly:

"Dubois, Sherlock. Emily Dubois. Did she do this?"

"No," Sherlock replied, hating how weak he sounded, "no…Moran-"

"Moran?"

Mycroft leaned forward, as though they shared some secret the empty flat should not hear.

"Sherlock, what was Moran doing here?"

He studied his brother, whose eyes darkened not with concerned, but fear. A kind of fear one felt when afraid of being caught.

And then Sherlock remembered.

"A message," Sherlock replied quietly, "a warning. To you. He knows what you're doing. Y know what he wants. He says…you know how to end this."

The two brothers stared at each other. He wasn't sure if he had ever seen his brother look so guilty, and for a moment he almost wanted to _forgive_ him. Whatever it was, Sherlock had to wonder how he could have so easily believed Moran.

"Right," Mycroft said. He pushed his chair back as he stood. "Well, that can't happen. How do you feel? Do you think you can stand?"

He didn't feel like he could do anything, but all he wanted to do was know the truth.

"Mycroft-"

"Sherlock this is none of your concern."

"_None of my concern?"_

His words bounced off the wall with a sharp echo. Words seemed to be trapped in Mycroft's throat as he stared at him, looking _embarrassed_. Embarrassed to be caught.

"I'm sorry that you got caught up in this, Sherlock," Mycroft said, "but I'm guessing you know by now that this is bigger than you. This is bigger than John, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson. You can't know, but-"

"I can't know?" Sherlock shouted. "I _can't know_?"

"Sherlock, calm down!" Mycroft shot, eyes glancing around anxiously.

Realizing he was still too weak to move, Sherlock slammed a fist down onto the couch. Mycroft flinched; he might of well have punched him in the face.

"I'm sick of this, Mycroft," Sherlock continued. "I'm sick of your secrecy, of your superiority complex. I don't give a damn what government position you occupy. I deserve to know what's going on because somehow, I feel like I could personally kill every person on the list of people connected to Moran and this still wouldn't end. What is this, Mycroft? Some game? Something to keep me occupied with?"

"If I'm not mistaken, this was your idea," Mycroft said quietly.

"Just _stop_!"

"You're acting like a child!"

"And you're _not_ acting like a brother!" They stared at each other for a moment; Mycroft looked shocked that he would actually accuse him of not acting like family. Never before had that been a concern to him, and it wasn't, but Sherlock knew it was that kind of accusation that would hit close to home for Mycroft. "Frankly, Mycroft, I've never cared that we're brothers. You've never much acted like one. You just like having the power- your job, being older than me, being able to tell someone what to do and being able to control _everything_. If I'm not mistaken, I'm under the impression that all of this is _your fault_. And you've been dealing with the guilt for years. Well now it's time to pay the price. I'm cleaning up your mess, as always. As always it's Sherlock Holmes who looks like the bad man. Moran's after us, Mycroft. Apparently you know what this is all about, and it's not about Moriarty. Or Mrs. Hudson. Or Lestrade. Or John. Whatever this is about, it _scares_ you. I can it see it in your eyes. I can see it in the way that your hands are shaking. I can see it in how your breath smells like whiskey and your clothes smell like smoke. I can continue playing this game. I _died_ to play this game. But until you decide to tell me what the hell is going on, none of it will matter."

Mycroft's eyes fell to the floor, and for a moment Sherlock was fooled into thinking he had actually gotten his brother to listen. But then, without speaking, Mycroft walked over to the counter top and picked up a rucksack. He stormed back over to Sherlock and dropped the sack on to the floor beneath him with a force that made him jump. Suddenly Sherlock was cold and shivering, and as he caught his breath he was forced to remember the condition he was in.

"Five thousand dollars, U.S. cash," Mycroft announced, "a change of clothes. A fake passport and I.D. Hair dye. You need to look like the photo I.D. and not like how Moran will remember you. It should be enough to get you out of the country and then send you off to wherever the hell you want to go." Sherlock's eyes widened, startled as he realized that his brother was sincerely angry. "You're right, Sherlock, this is bigger than you. I've been trying to warn you about that. But you're wrong: my position in the government does matter. More than you can ever know. And that's why you have to get out of here- leave America. Go into hiding. I'll take care of this."

He didn't like that his brother's plans did not include another suspect to hunt down, nor did it include contacting Sherlock in the future.

"Mycroft-"

_Sorry_ was so close to coming out of his mouth but he stopped when his brother looked at him. The guilt, the _sorrow_, in his brother's eyes was enough to know that he had been way out of line when he accused him of not caring.

"It is absolutely essential that you allow me to handle this. We'll find a way to get to Moran's men, but first there is something that I must take care of. Moran knows we're after him, and he'll be looking for you. If any more of his men go missing…" His brother looked ill as his voice trailed off into a whisper. Sherlock looked away, an unexplainable guilt taking over him. He had no reason to feel guilty- even if Mycroft did care, he was still lying. There was still a far more in depth game going on here than Sherlock knew, and he wanted to know what was going on. He had a right to know. But he also knew that, for whatever reason, now was not the time. "You're going to have to stay out of trouble, for the time being. I feel as though I've failed you-"

"Mycroft-"

His brother held up a hand and briefly closed his eyes as he caught his breath.

"We can't continue this right now, but you can't return to London either," Mycroft said, "so I'm going to ask you to listen to me, this one time, and trust me."

"Trust you?" Sherlock shot. He sat up, ignoring the pain that erupted through him as he did. "Trust the man who sold my life's story to Moriarty?"

"Sherlock-"

"Trust you, when you aren't even giving me so much as a clue as to what's going on?"

"Sherlock, stop it-"

"Trust _you_?" Sherlock continued, standing to his feet as he did. He stumbled a bit as he stood for the first time and days. His brother winced at this sign of weakness, but Sherlock ignored him. Instead he laughed, and Mycroft closed his eyes once more, obviously feeling uncomfortable as Sherlock took a step closer to him. "It's funny, Mycroft. Everyone thought I was the fraud. But it was you. All this time there's been an entirely different game going on. How long did you think you could fool me? Did you really think that I would kill Irene Adler? What was Moriarty? Just another pawn in the game? Tell me, Mycroft!"

Mycroft shook ever so slightly, tilting back a little as Sherlock leaned towards him, shouting as he finished his rant. He could tell Mycroft was disturbed by this outburst of anger, but Sherlock had never felt a greater reason to be angry at his brother. Just thinking of everything he was sacrificing, everyone he had left behind, and everyone he was placing at risk, was enough to justify his anger. Feeling a bit overwhelmed, he placed his hands on his brother's shoulders and shoved him backwards, as though that would guarantee him receiving answers.

Instead Mycroft looked away, appearing almost _disappointed_. Sherlock raised his fist, but, Mycroft caught his hand before he could attempt to hit him.

"Sherlock, stop it," Mycroft said again. "I understand-"

"You don't. You couldn't. Have you ever pretended to kill yourself, Mycroft?"

"Perhaps now you are beginning to see why I did not agree with this idea of yours in the first place!"

Eyes narrowing, Sherlock took a step back as he crossed his arms over his chest.

"Would you rather me be dead?" He challenged quietly. When Mycroft didn't respond, he continued: "How about John, should he be dead? Or Lestrade? Mrs. Hudson? She's just a landlady, for god's sake!"

"That's not what I meant-"

"That's what would have happened!"

"I'm aware-" Sherlock opened his mouth to interrupt once more but stopped when Mycroft raised a hand; a desperate attempt, he knew, to silence him. "I know what Moriarty's threat was. Trust me Sherlock, I know better than anyone. But can't you see that he's winning? He's made you like him-"

"I am _not_ like him!"

"This is what he wanted," Mycroft said, "if he knew what you were doing, well, I imagine he would be standing in front of us, smiling."

Sherlock raised his fist again, but Mycroft quickly continued:

"I'm on your side, Sherlock, I wish you could see that. I wish you could see how much I've worked to stop this."

"Well clearly it's not working."

Wounded, Mycroft swallowed, fighting to find the right words to continue.

"Moran's right," Mycroft said, "there is a way to end this. But trust me, Sherlock, it's not what anyone would want."

Drawing in a deep breath, Sherlock glanced towards the ground. The rush of adrenaline was dying as his injuries were catching back up with him. His head was suddenly pounding again, and his vision was growing dimmer. But he refused to back down before being given _some_ kind of answers.

"Why can't you just tell me what's going on?" Sherlock said, his voice hardly above a whisper.

Their eyes met, and he knew at that moment that Mycroft was sincere when he replied:

"You have no idea how much I wish I could."

Yet the reply was unacceptable. This was getting him nowhere, and meanwhile there was still a battle to be won. He couldn't just _stop_. Moran wouldn't stop. He knew that back in London Moran was probably tracking John and possibly Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson as well. He had been wrong in thinking their lives would no longer be at risk if he played this game.

Without saying anything else Sherlock grabbed the rucksack from the floor and stormed towards the door.

"Sherlock-"

"You want me gone?" Sherlock said as he threw the door open. Their eyes met for one final time, Mycroft pleading with him to not go until he could be given clear instructions on what to do. Sherlock just shook his head in awe, thinking it incredulous that Mycroft would even begin to believe that he might still listen to him. "Here, I'm going."

He fled down the hallway of the building, chasing the stairs as quickly as he could until he reached the exit to the street. A warm summer's afternoon greeted him as he stepped onto an unfamiliar street. Looking around, Sherlock couldn't even be sure that he was still in New Jersey. He held the rucksack close to him as he leaned against the brick wall between the building and the adjacent café. Throwing his arm over his eyes, he pressed hard against his closed eyelids, fighting tears that threatened to surface for the first time since standing on the rooftop of St. Bart's. He didn't know why he felt so weak at that moment. Perhaps it was weeks worth of injuries catching up to him. Perhaps it was the fact that he was in an unfamiliar country where he wasn't even sure which city he was in.

But he knew, deep down, that fear had finally won. It was a fear he had ignored for months. A fear that he would never be able to turn to London, and a fear that overwhelmed him as he admitted to himself, for the first time, that despite the risk he would have been taking he regretted ever leaving London.


	11. Chapter 11

__Author's Note: I decided to jump ahead in time a little. I figured not everyone would want to read every single thing that goes on during this time. This story covers a lot, and I felt like I needed a chapter to move the story forward some. But if this bothers anyone let me know. Believe it or not, I do pay attention to what people say in reviews!

* * *

><p><em>His heart was beating so rapidly that he was certain his brother could hear it. Maybe that was why Sherlock hadn't so much as glanced towards him since leaving the holding room in the government facility. Mycroft constantly stole glances towards his younger brother, only to find him staring out the window, his hands collapsed in his lap and folded into fists. When he looked closer, he saw that they were shaking. <em>

_Mycroft drew in a deep breath and tightened his grip on the steering wheel. The silence was agonizing. He was convinced that he should say something, though he knew it would be useless. In fact, any conversation started with his brother was guaranteed to make things worse. But the silence was killing him, and the thought of not seeing his brother again for at least another few months was suffocating._

"_Sherlock-"_

"_Do we have to do this?"_

_He winced a little at his brother's deep, raspy, voice. Sherlock sounded different, even more miserable than he remembered from just a couple of years ago._

"_We've discussed this."_

"_No," Sherlock shot, "the talking."_

_Once again Mycroft tightened his grip on the steering wheel. Up ahead the rehab facility was coming into view; he could see the panic rising in his brother's eyes, though he remained silent._

"_It's going to be alright," Mycroft stated quietly. _

"_Saying that never makes anyone feel better."_

"_It'll just be a few months-"_

_Cold laughter interrupted his brother, and a small sarcastic smile appeared at the corners of Sherlock's mouth._

"_What if someone told you that you would be spending just a few months of your life in a white room with no windows and walls?" Sherlock asked._

"_Yes, and yet it didn't matter to you to spend years of your life living on the streets."_

"_That was easy."_

"_Easy!" Mycroft exclaimed. "I'll never understand what goes on inside your mind, Sherlock. You're brilliant; you and I both know that. Someday you're going to look back at this time in your life and wonder how you could waste so much time."_

"_It wasn't wasted."_

"_Then explain to me-"_

"_I won't!" Sherlock shouted. His brother let out a few heavy breaths as he ran his hand through his hair, which was still as unkempt as it was the night the police found him. He was still wearing the same clothes: the same torn jeans, thin jacket, and worn shoes that he had been wearing for god only knew how long. "You wouldn't understand."_

"_You keep saying that!" Mycroft pointed out. "But I will-I want to understand."_

"_No you don't," Sherlock mumbled, "you want some doctors to take a look at me and figure out which meds will work best."_

"_If you won't talk to me then I want to find someone who you will talk to," Mycroft admitted, "I just want…I want what's best for you."_

"_Yeah, you've been saying that for almost ten years now," Sherlock shot, "mummy and daddy disappear out of the picture and suddenly you think it's your job to fix everything."_

"_No, I think it's my job to be the only family you care to have."_

"_I don't care to have you. I thought you'd figure that out by now."_

"_Dammit, Sherlock!"_

_They both lurched forward a bit as Mycroft slammed on the brakes. He turned to his brother, fighting to catch his breath. Their eyes met for the first time since speaking in the government facility, and he was disturbed to see the sincere hatred that was still in them. He was also disturbed to see how tired his brother looked, how drained of life he appeared with the permanent bags that were etched into the skin beneath his eyes. _

"_This is for your own good," Mycroft said softly, "one day, you'll understand."_

"_And one day you'll understand why I don't care. You don't impress me."_

_Mycroft closed his eyes briefly, choosing his words carefully as he knew they would be the last he would say to him for a long time._

_But when the passenger side door slammed Mycroft opened his eyes to find that Sherlock was already leaning against the car, waiting for him. The parking lot was nearly empty for the early morning shift, and Mycroft couldn't help but to be grateful for this as he stepped out and led his brother in silence into the rehab facility. _

* * *

><p><em>December 25th, 2012<em>

Mycroft closed his eyes tightly, ashamed at the tears that threatened to seep through. Before his brother faked his death, the last time Mycroft remembered driving an automobile was the day he took Sherlock to the rehab facility. Six years of time seemed to crawl by slowly, and the change in his brother was obvious.

Every day he had to convince himself the changes were good. He had to look past the condescending, the attitude, the darkness, and remember who his brother was six years ago.

And now he had to wonder what all of that was for. He poured himself another drink and leaned against the doorframe as he stared at the empty room before him.

"The ones you lose around Christmas are the hardest."

He jumped at the voice that suddenly pierced the silence of his empty house. Spinning around, Mycroft's heart leapt as a lamp turned on to reveal Irene Adler.

"Every year you get to remember…" her eyes trailed to the room he was standing by, "I truly am sorry for your loss, Mr. Holmes."

A sad smile briefly crossed his face as he stared down at his glass.

"Does Sherlock know?" She asked as she stood up.

He watched as she began to wonder around the room, admiring the odds and ends on the shelves.

"How did you get in here, Miss Adler?"

"You haven't spoken to him in three months," Irene said, ignoring him as she picked up a picture of a seven year old Sherlock and fourteen year old Mycroft. She smiled to herself, and Mycroft couldn't help but to remember how his brother seemed to actually _care_ for Irene Adler, which only increased his anger towards her. "You have no idea where he is or what he's doing. And it terrifies you."

Mycroft's eyes fell to the floor as each sleepless night he had since he last saw his brother passed before them. Day in and day out dozens of horrific ideas crossed his mind, and as the days drew closer to the new year the idea that his brother might never return to London became real.

"Why are you here?" He demanded.

"Did you really think he would kill me?" Irene asked.

She turned towards him, arms crossed over her chest. In the light he could see that she was dressed as elegantly as ever, in a midnight blue ballroom gown and a tired hairdo that suggested it had already been a long night for her. Mycroft smirked.

"Tough day at work?" He shot, and then admitted: "I was hoping he would see you for who you really are. Apparently I misjudged my brother's affection for you."

"Well I can assure you that I haven't spoken to your brother either," Irene said, "and I promise you, Mycroft Holmes, that I worry about him."

"I'm sure."

"You know what Moran is capable of," Irene said. His eyes narrowed, acknowledging that she was correct.

He took a careful step towards her. As he did she stepped back, taking a seat on the sofa.

"You were the first mistake I ever made while working for the government, Miss Adler," Mycroft admitted, "and I am sure that you are aware that I could have the entirety of my government agents here in an instant to arrest you. With that said, I have to ask you again, why are you here?"

Irene glanced down, and her moment of hesitation only made him more concerned that somehow, she was still playing him.

"I have made mistakes as well," Irene said, "I'm not proud of what I've become. There are very few people left in this world who truly care about me, and I've hurt every last one of them. It's time for a change of pace."

She noticed immediately his look of disbelief. Irene got to her feet and turned gracefully to reveal a thick, angry, scar that crawled down her shoulder.

"I assure you, I've already paid the price for my decision. I've come here to offer you information. I know what you and your brother have been doing, and regardless of the status of your relationship I know that you are concerned, and I know that you are still looking for these targets."

She opened a small pouch she had been carrying and revealed and sheet of paper. Irene stuffed the paper into his hands, and when he opened it he saw a list of some twenty-five names. He had to bite back a grin of satisfaction- he knew that if Irene Adler was involved, a move like this was too good to be true.

"What do you want from me?" Mycroft asked.

Irene simply shrugged.

"I ask nothing of you, Mr. Holmes," Irene replied, "and I'm sure that you will be delighted to know that this is the last time you will ever see me."

Mycroft glanced back down at the list of names, studying them as he tried to determine the legitimacy of her promise. He recognized a few of the names- some were simple con men, people he would have never guessed would be caught up with Moran and Moriarty.

When he looked up again, part of him wasn't even surprised to see that Irene Adler had disappeared. If it wasn't for the piece of paper in his hands he might have wondered if he imagined the conversation altogether.

* * *

><p>His eyes were glued to the monitor as he sat in the hotel room alone. In the darkness a blue glow illuminated from the security camera footage he was watching on the laptop, showing him the whereabouts of his next target. Knowing that no one was watching, Sherlock gently massaged his wrist, where a burning pain was the only evidence that he had been anywhere near James Morton's flat that evening. Considering that a tumble down the fire escape was the only flaw in his plan, Sherlock couldn't help but to smile to himself with pride.<p>

He knew the pain was simply a haunting from his old wound, from the fall off of St. Barts nearly a year ago. In the three months since he had last spoken to his brother he had tracked down three more targets.

At the sound of a door slamming his eyes drifted to the entrance of the room, where Irene Adler was carefully making sure the door was locked.

"I told you to put ice on that bloody wrist," she mumbled as she stormed into the room. Spinning around, hands on her hips, she glared at him, and it took exceptional effort to keep his eyes on the security footage and to not allow himself to be distracted. "That should be enough to keep your brother off your back for at least six months. Sherlock-"

Sherlock heard her words trail off to silence, but he never heard his name being called as the camera zoomed further into the picture.

"Sherlock!"

Slamming his good fist down onto the table, he closed his eyes to fight the urge to jump up from the table and shout at her.

"I'm working," he announced calmly.

"Yes, I can see that. Aren't you the least bit concerned of how your brother's doing?"

"If I was concerned then I wouldn't be taking such efforts to hide from him."

"He's desperately worried about you-"

"Tell me something new."

"This is none of my business-"

"And yet you keep talking."

"But don't you think you're being a bit unfair?" She finished.

Silence fell over the room. Sherlock knew he was one of the only people who could truly intimidate Irene Adler, and sure enough when he turned around in the chair she took a step back. Her arms crossed over her chest- a usual way that she attempted to protect herself.

"You're right, this is none of your business," Sherlock said. He turned back to the computer screen. Another moment of silence passed before he realized what she must really want to discuss with him. He stopped working once more and paused, hands hovering over the keyboard. Taking a deep breath, he prepared himself for the worst as he asked: "How is she?"

"She died yesterday day morning."

Yesterday morning. Christmas Eve. No wonder Mycroft was so upset.

"I'm so sorry-"

"It's fine," he quickly lied.

The last thing he needed was Irene Adler trying to get him to discuss his mother's death. He closed his eyes, stealing a brief moment to push away the emotions that were threatening to overwhelm him.

Behind him, Irene cleared her throat.

"I didn't completely lie to him," she announced, "I am leaving. You have the information. You want to be alone. And I can't have any more to do with this."

He spun around and got to his feet, though he didn't know what to say. They stood in silence, staring at each other, each afraid to admit that deep down, neither wanted to be separated from the other. When Irene found him once more two months ago he had been tempted to treat her just as he had any other name on the list- every ounce of common sense told him not to trust her, to stay away. But she proved herself to be a useful ally, and having her company kept him saner than talking to walls. He stole a glance towards her shoulder, where the knife wound remained a reminder of the enemies that would still be looking for her.

"I can't do this anymore," she whispered, "I can no longer be a part of this."

Sherlock felt as though he should say something- he felt owed her something. A goodbye, pleading words to convince her to stay- something.

Yet he stood there, in silence, and watched as she turned towards the doorway and disappeared.


	12. Chapter 12

A cloud of cold air gathered before him as he let out a stifled sigh. He felt as though a great weight were lifted from him as the last of the few guests left the gravesite. The funeral had been small; his mother's old age had seen many of her friends pass away already, and most of their family's acquaintances were from his father's side.

Mycroft eyes darted towards the black sedan that was waiting for him. Anthea had been stationed near the service throughout the afternoon- she had even offered to make up a national emergency, were he to need a quick escape from the madness. But, being the last known representative of his family, he forced himself to stay throughout the service.

There was only one guest left as the casket was secured into the ground. Mycroft lingered near the funeral home employees, hesitant to speak up, though he knew that it was inevitable that he must say something. The final guest was lingering not near his mother grave but the one next to it- his brother's. He fought throughout the entire service not to glance over to Sherlock's grave, unable to stand seeing his name written on the headstone. His mother had been torn with the knowledge that she was about to be buried next to her youngest son- and he never had the courage to confess the truth.

Every bit of him wanted to run the other way as he approached the guest, but Mycroft felt like he owed him something- he at least deserved to not be ignored.

After all, he had been the only one of Sherlock's acquaintances to attend the service.

"My condolences," the man said as he turned to Mycroft.

Mycroft nodded, but when he tried to speak he found that he did not have a clue what to say.

"I suppose she's at peace now. Why didn't you tell me she had cancer?"

The man turned to him, and for the first time in nearly eight months Mycroft met the eyes of John Watson.

In the past Mycroft tended to forget that John was older than Sherlock. They both seemed to have the energy of teenagers…he was the best friend that Sherlock never had as a kid.

But now, nearly a year after his friend's death, John was beginning to look his age. He wore the same military haircut and coat that he always did, but his relaxed shoulders and tired were a reflection of his struggle with civilian life.

"I look awful, I know," John said with a small laugh, "things are a bit hectic right now, what with the new practice and all. But I'm sure you know all about that."

John's eyes twinkled as he turned to Mycroft, who still remained silent, feeling trapped as he realized that of course John would suspect that he was spying on him.

"Manchester just wasn't working," John admitted, "as much as I felt like I needed to get out of London the rest of the world seemed…suffocating. I realized I was running from something and that the best thing for me was to get back to London and accept everything that has happened."

Mycroft closed his eyes briefly as guilt swept over him. Somehow, it seemed like every conversation he had ever had with John Watson had been a lie.

"Congratulations on the new practice," he offered, "thank you for your condolences, though it was unnecessary for you to be here today."

"Of course it wasn't," John replied. He turned to Mycroft, suddenly turning cold once more. "It was the only place where I knew I could find you."

Yes, of course. He wasn't the only one keeping up with everything from Sherlock's London life. John had been spying on him as well. Searching for any excuse, it seemed, to remind him of how much he ruined Sherlock's life.

"John-"

"I forgive you."

Mycroft stopped. _This_ he certainly hadn't been suspecting. In fact, he couldn't remember anyone saying those words to him ever before.

John glanced down, his cheeks turning red though his skin had been frozen in pale white from the cold.

"I wasn't being fair to you, after…after what happened," John paused. He looked like a man who had rehearsed what he was going to say over and over, only to still crack under nerves when the conversation came. "I lost my friend, and you lost your brother."

Mycroft was stunned. This was the lowest he had felt throughout the past year. Having to pretend that his brother was dead didn't make him feel nearly as guilty as seeing how much John Watson was struggling with the tragedy. It made him feel even worse to realize the lengths the man had gone through to recover.

"I know you never wanted that," John admitted, softly.

With a stiff nod, Mycroft considered his words carefully.

"I never understood what went on inside my brother's mind. Even as kids, he was always…special, as Mother used to say." This earned a small smile from John. "I'll never forgive myself for what happened, and I would never ask you to forgive me."

John stared at him.

"But I'm offering."

"No, you are not," Mycroft sighed, "you're fulfilling some kind of mission, probably suggested by your new therapist, to find peace and accept what has happened. But you don't want to. You don't forgive me, Dr. Watson. You _shouldn't_ forgive me. You can't force yourself to accept what happened. I know you are still angry. Your therapist has been telling you that all of these feelings are wrong, that you should be okay by now. But it's perfectly fine to not be."

"What if I'm tired of being depressed?"

Mycroft's eyes began to wonder back towards the sedan, itching for an excuse to escape. He let out a deep sigh, hoping John would take that as a cue that he did not wish to continue the conversation. He hadn't the faintest idea of what he should say.

"I'm sorry," John continued quickly, "you're right, I shouldn't have come. Just- forget what I said, alright? I was out of line."

"No, it's fine."

"I should really get going," John said, ignoring him, "I'm still setting up the office, and I've got to start hiring-"

"It's alright."

"I'm sorry, Mycroft."

With that John disappeared, leaving Mycroft standing alone in the cemetery between the graves of his brother and mother. At last the temptation got the best of him, and Mycroft allowed himself to steal a glance towards Sherlock's grave.

The black marble shown as brilliantly as it had the day of the funeral. He could see himself in the reflection of the glass. The towering tress behind him seemed intimidating in the reflection; he felt as though Sherlock might jump out at any moment and lecture him on the way he had just treated his friend.

There were a new set of flowers to match the holiday season. They were still fresh, and Mycroft realized that John must have placed them there before the service.

"Sir."

He jumped at the sound of Anthea's voice.

"I told you it wasn't necessary-"

"I'm not pretending, Sir. Daniel Kent was found dead this morning."

Mycroft raised a hand to his forehead and bowed his head to hide the emotion that immediately swept over him. Daniel Kent had worked with him longer than any of the other agents. He had offered to take over surveillance of a group that had recently begun making new threats in Ireland. Mycroft had hesitated to deem the threats as legitimate, but Kent was more concerned and offered to take over the assignment so that he could make the arrangements for the funeral.

"And Sir-"when he looked up, he noticed that she flinched ever so slightly at the coldness in his eyes, "Jeremy Fleming was found with him. They were both shot. There was no evidence of who the shooter was, and the security footage was wiped clean. Whoever did this had some knowledge of your security systems- they knew exactly what to look for."

Mycroft nodded. That was as much evidence as he needed to confirm his suspicions. Nevertheless, he still needed to know:

"I need you to look into Jeremy Fleming. Look through the notes Kent kept- see if he had any connection to Moriarty."

"Moriarty?"

He could sense that she stopped herself from reminding him that Moriarty was dead.

"Yes, Moriarty," Mycroft said, "and I will need to make travel arrangements."

With that he turned around and began storming towards the sedan.

"To where?" She called after him.

"Ireland."

He was aware that his hands were shaking as he took out his mobile, hoping that there was some chance that Sherlock had tried to contact him.

A blank screen stared back at him.

Gripping the mobile in his fist, Mycroft's eyes swept over the graveyard one last time. As he stepped into the sedan, he couldn't help but to remind himself that it wouldn't be long before he would be in the same cemetery once more.


	13. Chapter 13

Author's Note: I feel like such a bad person. I knew I was going to be away from my computer for a few days, and I meant to post this chapter before I left- I really and truly did! But I forgot, and when I realized my mistake I felt awful! So here is the new chapter. I'm sorry for disappointing you guys and not updating sooner!

* * *

><p>Footsteps stormed the stairway as his team raced through the abandoned warehouse in Waterford. Fleming's connection with Moriarty was through a radical group the two had been a part of in the late 1980s. After members of Fleming's current gang denied the credit for Kent's murder, Mycroft knew his suspicions were correct.<p>

But he had already brought in the government on this one. He couldn't drop the case, considering his past with Kent and the shared hatred that overwhelmed his entire staff upon hearing of his death. After learning that one of his agents tracked down a possible suspect in Waterford, Mycroft had less than 24 hours to formulate his plan, and he could only hope that everything would go smoothly.

"Clear!" One of the agents exclaimed when they reached the top floor.

Mycroft glanced out of a blown-out window as he stepped into the room. They were ten flights up, and the window offered a dull view of the fields behind the warehouse. It certainly wasn't a good place for a wanted criminal to hide- if one were to flee from the building they could be easily seen in the shallow fields.

When he saw that the room was indeed empty Mycroft let out a heavy sigh- but a crash from the emergency staircase caught their attention.

"That's him!" One of the agents shouted.

His heart began to race as his men darted towards the second stairway, across the room. He knew very well who they would find, and he knew that this couldn't end well. He had mere seconds to formulate a new plan, but without hesitation he called out:

"Wait!"

Mycroft strode across the room as his men stopped and stared at him.

"I'm going after him," he announced.

He held out his hand to one of the agents, who silently handed over his weapon.

"Sir-"

"Kent was my agent," Mycroft said, "I'm making the arrest. Prepare the transport. We aren't going back to London just yet- there will be too many chances for him to escape. Go back down to the main entrance and wait for me."

One of the men stepped towards him and handed him two additional items: handcuffs and a burlap sack.

"For the arrest," the second agent said, "and if you need to sedate him-" he was handed a sedative as well. "Good luck, Sir."

Mycroft nodded, his eyes glued to the syringe in his hands. He stuffed the items in the pocket of his suit jacket before taking off down the stairwell. It was only four flights down before he discovered the assailant limping down the stairs, grasping for the walls as he went. The man's ankle stuck out at an odd angle, and Mycroft grimaced, realizing the crash they heard must have been a tumble down the staircase.

Raising the gun, Mycroft steadied his grip on the weapon before exclaiming:

"Freeze!"

The assailant stopped, though the sharp movements revealed shock not from being caught- but from recognizing who was speaking. Mycroft slowly made his way down the staircase, careful not to recreate the fall. As he approached the assailant, the man announced:

"Are you really going to shoot your only remaining family?"

"Sherlock-"

His reply was hardly a whisper, and a cruel laughter escaped from his brother as he turned around and faced Mycroft for the first time in four months.

Mycroft had to take special care to not lose his grip on the weapon when he saw the state his brother was in. Somehow, Sherlock managed to appear even skinnier. His frail frame was barely being supported by a shaking hand as he held onto the wall beside them. Sherlock's hair was cut shorter and had been dyed a dark shade of brown, but his bangs were growing back and clung to his sweaty forehead.

"Apparently I'm rubbish at racing down staircases," Sherlock smirked, glancing down at his ankle, "I suppose this doesn't help your credibility, catching a wounded criminal. Doesn't exactly make for good storytelling, does it?"

All Mycroft could think was that this was just typical _Sherlock_. All he could think of was the years he spent, working beside Daniel Kent and the funeral he would have to attend the next day. None of this seemed to concern his brother whatsoever.

Momentarily choosing to ignore his brother's injuries, Mycroft grabbed him by the shoulders and slammed him against the wall. Instead of wincing in pain a wild grin swept across Sherlock's face, and for that single moment Mycroft forgot that he was speaking to a family member- to his own brother- and in the other man's eyes he saw the same soul possessed by dozens of the men he had helped catch over the years. The confusion of how this man could be his brother only fueled his anger.

"Gallivanting across the globe and carelessly taking on the challenge of taking down some of the largest and most dangerous criminal organizations is reckless enough!" Mycroft hissed. "But you _murdered_ one of my own men, Sherlock! I've worked with Daniel Kent for fifteen years. He was a decent of a man as you can find, and now he's dead because of your carelessness, your stupidity-"

"My ability to stop one of the worst terrorist incidents in years from happening?" Sherlock shot.

A crack echoed through the damp stairwell as his hand smacked against Sherlock's face. His brother's face snapped back, and Mycroft tightened his grip on both Sherlock's shoulder and the gun as his eyes slow trailed back to him.

"You shot an innocent man," Mycroft whispered, aware that one of the agents could be overhearing them.

For a brief moment a look of self-pity flashed over Sherlock's eyes. Mycroft frowned as he further realized the horrid shape his brother was in: deep bags remained underneath Sherlock's eyes, and he would wager that his brother hadn't slept since the incident. His lips were dry and raw, and his weak state revealed that he had probably ignored the fact that he needed to eat and keep hydrated. A scar revealed where his lip had been busted not too long ago, and as he studied his brother's face he discovered other tiny scars that signaled many fights which had occurred over the past four months. There was no doubt in his mind that his brother had the ability to fight back, but for some reason Sherlock stood there, simply accepting the slap to the face. After a few rough breaths Sherlock finally replied:

"Kent wasn't innocent."

Mycroft's fist flew through the air before he even realized what he was doing. Sherlock held his nose in his hand as he stumbled down the last few steps before he reached the third-floor landing.

"You need to think very carefully about what you're suggesting," Mycroft growled, "Kent was my best agent. He was my closest- the closest thing I ever had to a friend."

Mycroft let out a deep sigh, regretting the conclusion of his sentence. He wasn't surprised when Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"That's touching, Mycroft, but I discovered Kent working with Fleming. They were arranging dates for something- something that sounded big."

"He was running survalliance!" Mycroft exclaimed. "He could have been under cover!"

"No-"

"Sherlock!" He shoved his brother harder against the wall. "I have spent the past week making arrangements for my mother's funeral. You haven't given me the curtesy of speaking to me in four months so I assume that you do not care. A colleague of mine was just found dead. I am not in the mood for your games! You did yourself no favors by wiping the security footage clean."

"Except I didn't erase the footage," Sherlock replied calmly. "I stole it and replaced it with previous footage. It was simple, really. You should seriously consider updating your security programs."

Mycroft drew in a deep breath, determined to not let himself belief for a second that Sherlock could be right. He knew his brother had a habit of proving the most impossible theories correct, but there was simply no way this could be one of those times.

Yet in the back of his mind, Mycroft couldn't help but to remember the unusual number of times Kent had requested off work, the eagerness he had in being the only member of the staff to go to Ireland for the assignment- despite the fact that it was Christmas.

"What are you doing here?" Mycroft asked.

"Hiding, waiting," Sherlock said with a shrug, "I was going to find you Mycroft, I swear."

Sherlock's voice was beginning to falter thanks to the broken nose he now possessed. Mycroft glanced at the black and blue dots that now decorated his brother's face, and he hated himself for admitting that he had to consider all options- including the possibility that his brother was correct.

"I can't take you back to London," Mycroft said. He winced at the disappointed that flashed across Sherlock's eyes. "And there is no way for you to escape from this warehouse without being caught by the agents."

"So what?"

Mycroft withdrew the burlap sack and handcuffs. Sherlock rolled his eyes and stuck out his hands.

"I suppose they gave you a sedative as well?" Sherlock said.

"Just stay quiet," Mycroft said, "don't answer any questions. We'll be taking a separate car."

"And what happens when I arrive at your government facility and they realize their culprit is your dead brother?"

"I'll work something out."

He already had.

"Ready?" Mycroft asked. He glanced down at Sherlock's ankle. "Can you walk?"

Sherlock grabbed the burlap sack.

"I'm fine," he replied.

Mycroft placed the handcuffs around his wrist, a little too tightly- he didn't want Sherlock thinking that he had forgiven him too soon.

"Mummy would like the haircut," he sneered, "she always thought the black hair was ridiculous."

As promised, Sherlock didn't say anything throughout the car ride. Mycroft had instructed the driver to head towards Kildare while he sent his agents back to London to prepare to receive the "culprit". He claimed that he needed to meet with Irish representatives before making the move and that they wanted to see the criminal for themselves.

Sherlock had remained perfectly still, though Mycroft could tell the pain he felt with each step.

"How is the ankle?" He asked.

"I thought I was supposed to be quiet."

The arrogance was gone, replaced with exhaustion and impatience.

"This part of the car is blocked off by a soundproof wall," Mycroft replied.

"Why would you need a soundproof wall in a car?" Sherlock said. He paused. "Don't answer that."

Mycroft smirked, but ignored the comment.

"There are no cameras in here either," he said.

He reached forward and removed the burlap sack. Sherlock drew in a gasp of fresh air. His eyes flashed towards the tinted windows, taking in their surroundings.

"When we reach the next stop a car will run the stop sign and hit us head on," Mycroft announced. Sherlock looked at him in surprise but did not interrupt. "The impact will stun the driver long enough for you to make an escape. I will try to give you at least an hour's head start before I will be forced to call for back-up."

Sherlock's eyes wondered to the window once **more**, already searching for the car. He nodded.

"You can't stay in Ireland. Get to Scotland- Edinburgh, and go to this address. Wait for me. I will get there as soon as I can."

Mycroft handed him a piece of paper with a street address. Sherlock read the address and then pocketed the paper, though Mycroft knew he would have only needed one glance at the address to memorize it.

"Unfortunately I can't unlock the handcuffs," Mycroft said, "it would look suspicious, were you to be seen. But here's the key." He placed the key carefully into the front pocket of Sherlock's shirt, where it would be easy for him to reach it. "And for god's sakes Sherlock, whatever you do, when you get to Edinburgh, don't leave. I swear if I arrive there and you aren't there-"

"I'll be there."

The curt reply assured him that Sherlock was serious. Yet his brother still avoided his eyes.

"This isn't over, Sherlock," Mycroft said, "I can't tell you how disappointed I am."

Sherlock let out a rough laugh.

"Is that anything new?"

Mycroft closed his eyes briefly, regretting his last statement. As he considered what he should say next he noticed the approaching vehicle speeding up.

"You may want to put on your seat belt," Mycroft announced, nodding towards the sedan, which was gaining more and more speed every second.

Sherlock nodded and their eyes met briefly as the seatbelt locked into place. Then Sherlock closed his eyes and sat back, drawing his hands over his face. He couldn't be sure if this was for protection- or out of pure exhaustion.

His brother remained silent as the engine of the approaching vehicle became louder and louder. Mycroft swallowed and sat back as well, bracing himself for the impact.


	14. Chapter 14

Sherlock woke up the feeling of something pounding against his head and a cold, rushing, water that was spilling over him. He hesitated before opening his eyes, choosing instead to relish in the comfort of darkness as he struggled for his last memory. All he could recall was being in a car with Mycroft and being suddenly thrown back and his neck snapping backwards.

Raising a numb arm to his head he felt his neck and winced in pain as his head pounded with the movement. He took a deep breath, preparing himself for the worst as he finally forced his eyes opened.

The first thing he noticed was the rushing water was rain. This was concerning, as he recalled that it wasn't raining when he was in the car. The window beside him was cracked, allowing the water to leak through and into his hair.

The second thing he noticed was how quiet everything was. From the looks of it, their car had sailed into a ditch on impact, rolled over, and then landed the correct way up again.

His eyes then fell on his brother, and his heart began to race. Mycroft was still unconscious, and his head was hanging to the side. His skin was deathly pale and it looked like glass had chipped the skin on the side of his face and neck. His brother wasn't moving.

"Mycroft?"

No response. Sherlock tried to reach forward but realized his hands were trapped- of course, the handcuffs. Mycroft must have given him the keys then, and sure enough he found them in his pocket a moment later. He winced as the metal cuffs fell off, revealing skin that was worn with cuts after being tossed about in the car.

He felt for a pulse and let out a sigh of relief when it appeared that his brother was breathing normally. Their conversation was slowly coming back to him- and he was remembering clearly Mycroft's warning that he would only have an hour or so head start. He glanced towards Mycroft, hesitant to leave him like this, but he knew his brother must have considered this in his plan.

Sherlock struggled to get the door open; he had to resort to kicking it until he was able to step out into the rainstorm. He could see no traces of civilization anywhere around him. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a piece of paper with a Scotland address. He looked around the barren countryside, remembering that Mycroft said he told his team they were heading towards Kildare- obviously he needed to be heading towards an aiport.

With that thought he reached into Mycroft's pockets, pulling out as much currency as he could find from his wallet.

When he stepped out of the car again he remembered his earlier injury. The hurt ankle would be no help in his long walk into town, but as he looked around to the barren countryside he knew he had no choice but to run.

By nightfall he was walking a country road which would supposedly lead him towards his final destination. The pain brought by the sprained ankle was nearly forgotten, but he could not get past the frustration of not knowing what the destination was.

Sherlock couldn't help but to keep glancing behind him, not only to make sure no one was following him, but in search of any sign of his brother's arrival.

A few miles down the road he finally caught sight of a white picket fence. Sherlock glanced down at the address on the paper and up at the numbers painted on the side of the small, single family cottage, and was surprised to see that the numbers matched.

The front gate creaked with protest as he stepped onto the gravel pathway. The grass around the house had grown to nearly a foot, signaling that the property hadn't been cared for. As he stepped up to the front door Sherlock hesitated, considering for the first time that perhaps someone lived here. But the windows were dark and only his footprints remained on the ground. He tried the door handle, but he didn't have to try too hard- the door opened for him.

"Molly?"

Sherlock grabbed onto the doorframe, stunned.

They stared at each other in silence, each equally as confused. Sherlock couldn't help but to observe every inch of her- noticing that she had a shorter haircut, that she had lost ten pounds, that she was as pale as ever, as though she still never saw sunlight.

"Sherlock," she whispered. A small smile crossed her face, but he still couldn't find the right words to say. "You look…you look terrible."

Sherlock nodded, knowing she was correct. He couldn't remember the last time he showered or ate a full meal. He didn't say anything as she took his hand and allowed her to pull him inside.

Only a floor lamp illuminated the room. The cottage was scarcely furnished: a sofa with blankets revealed that she had been sleeping in the sitting room, the television looked a decade old, and the dishes piled in the sink told him Molly had been staying there at least a couple of days. But she didn't live there.

"Your brother, in Scotland," Sherlock remembered suddenly.

That seemed so long ago, but he could still feel the desperation he felt that day as they stood in Mycroft's sitting room, preparing for their journey.

"He actually lives in Germany now," Molly said, "he was offered a fantastic job there, just out of the blue."

She grinned, and he smiled back, knowing that Mycroft must have had something to do with the promotion.

"You don't live here," he announced as he began to wonder around the room. He noted the dresser that lacked the usual picture frames that normally sat on top of them; an inch worth of dust gathered there instead. "This sofa is far too nice for your income. The rest of the furniture is nearly abandoned. You're sleeping on the sofa- probably uncomfortable with sleeping in an unfamiliar bed, but more than likely for protection. You've been waiting for someone. You just put the kettle on, and there are two mugs on the counter, as though you were expecting someone to drop by."

Molly rolled her eyes.

"Have you missed being able to do that?"

Sherlock grinned and replied, honestly:

"Terribly."

"Well…tea?"

Fifteen minutes later they were seated on opposite ends of the couch, Sherlock reluctantly wrapped in the blanket she insisted on offering him. He welcomed the warmth of the tea against his throat, which was beginning to ache- an unfortunate side effect of wondering the countryside on a freezing afternoon, combined with a lack of sleep and dehydration.

"Are you sure you're alright?" She asked him.

Molly studied him, as though uncertain she had the authority to ask.

"Fine."

"There's glass in your hair!"

She reached up, and he couldn't help but to wince as he felt her swipe at the tiny shards of glass.

"Let me help you," she insisted, getting to her feet as she sat aside her tea.

"No, it's fine-"

"You could have a head injury!"

"I don't."

"Sherlock, just…please," she hesitated, her hands resting on hips, "besides, what else are we supposed to do?"

He honestly couldn't decide which would be more awkward- sitting in an unfamiliar sitting room with Molly or sitting with he while she tended to his injuries. At last she grabbed his hand, forcing him to his feet before she could stop him. A groan of pain left him before he realized she could hear him.

"What?" She exclaimed. She held onto him tightly, as though afraid he might explode into bits.

"Nothing, it's just-" he stumbled back a few steps, landing into a heap on the couch. He clutched his ankle with his hand and glared at it, wondering how his body could betray him at this time, "I hurt my ankle earlier. But it's fine, nothing serious."

"Yes, and then you proceeded to wonder around the countryside all afternoon," Molly pointed out, "that could worsen even the smallest of injuries. Here-"

She stacked a few of the pillows at the end of the couch and picked up his foot, carefully placing his ankle on top.

"I'll get you some ice," Molly paused when she turned around, noticing that the kitchen was empty, and added: "or at least something cold."

Sherlock watched as she wondered into the kitchen and began fishing through the freezer. He immediately noticed things about her that he hadn't earlier- that she had lost weight, that her hair was a lighter color, that she was wearing more make-up than usual. A sparkling silver necklace hung around her neck, and as she took out the ice tray her fingers played with the charm at the end.

Sighing, he ran his hands over his face and closed his eyes- -

_Bang!_

Sherlock shot straight up, his hand flying to his coat pocket where his weapon should be. His eyes flew open only to see that it was night; moonlight poured into the room through the white curtains. Instead of his jacket he noticed he was wearing a flannel pyjama top that wasn't his. He tried to move but a sharp pain from his ankle protested the effort. When he looked down he could see even in the darkness that someone had bandaged the injury carefully.

"It's just thunder," said a nervous whisper.

His eyes darted around the room until he noticed a thin figure sitting up straight in the arm chair across from him.

Molly Hooper.

And then the day's memories finally came flooding back to him. Embarrassed, Sherlock ran a hand through his hair and sat back, wishing that somehow this were a dream.

"You fell asleep," Molly explained, "I figured you could use the rest, so I didn't bother you."

He looked over to her and noticed she was wearing pyjama pants and a t-shirt, indicating that she had packed for this occasion. He glanced down at his own shirt and noticed that the pattern in the material was faded and smelled slightly of mothballs.

"This isn't my shirt," he commented.

"I found it in the bedroom," Molly explained. "I hope you don't mind."

Her cheeks reddened with embarrassment, but Sherlock shook his head silently. He sat up, back against the couch, and the two faced each other, completely uncertain of what to say. At last he decided to say what had to be on both of their minds:

"Any idea what we're doing here?"

Molly shook her head but didn't offer any response. She was lying to him, he realized.

"I was with Mycroft- my brother- was here at all?"

Again she shook her head, this time a little more frantically as though she were being interrogated for a crime. Sherlock let out a deep sigh, realizing that of course his brother must have set this up. He didn't want to frighten Molly any more than she probably already was, so he didn't push the subject.

"You're doing well, then," he said. She looked at him surprise. "You've lost a little weight, and you're being much more concerned about your looks. More make-up, better clothes, nicer hair color. That necklace isn't something you would buy for yourself, and it's too nice for a present from friend or family, so I'm guessing boyfriend? And it's a cross necklace- he's a religious man. You're still not sure how you feel about that."

"He works with children's youth groups," Molly admitted quietly; she looked- somehow- more embarrassed than ever, "and we're engaged."

His heart skipped a beat as their eyes met. He realized he had been holding his breath- _why_ was he so shocked about this? Of course Molly would move on. And why should he care? Another clap of thunder brought him back to reality.

"Well. That's great."

"It doesn't sound like you believe it."

"I do," Sherlock lied, but with all sincerity added: "congratulations, Molly. You deserve someone good. I always said you were far better than London."

She smiled a little, and replied:

"Do I even want to know how you know I'm not in London anymore?"

Even he grinned a little at that.

"You're not even in Europe," he said, "let's see- you were never too impressed with America, and you're a bit more tan. Getting out of the morgue a little more now? Your clothing is far too thin for winters in the United Kingdom. So Australia, I presume?"

Molly's smile widened a little.

"Admit it, you miss this," Sherlock teased.

Molly grinned again, and then an awkward silence fell between them. Sherlock looked away, finding that guilt overwhelmed him too much to look her in the eye again.

"Sherlock-" she began quietly.

But they were interrupted as someone burst through the front door. They both leapt to their feet in shock; Sherlock automatically stepped in front of Molly. His eyes darted around, desperately searching for where she could have left the jacket, which should at least have a pocket knife-

"Thank you Molly, you can leave now," said the man as he stepped into the room.

Sherlock's hands formed into fists upon seeing his brother enter the room. While part him couldn't help but to notice, with relief, that Mycroft appeared perfectly fine, he knew his suspicions were confirmed.

"What's going on?" Sherlock demanded.

He glanced between Mycroft and Molly, but neither replied. Molly looked away, eyes pinned to the ground in shame.

"Now, Miss Hooper!" Mycroft exclaimed.

Molly looked up to Mycroft in surprise.

"But it's the middle of the night!"

"There's a cab waiting for you outside," Mycroft explained as he handed her currency, "you will be taken to the airport. Or you may visit your brother, whatever you wish-"

"I don't need your permission."

Sherlock couldn't help but to be proud of this newfound confidence in Molly, but Mycroft obviously wasn't amused. She glanced back to Sherlock, silently beginning to be forgiven, but she didn't dare ask. He allowed her to throw her arms around him, pulling him into a hug which he reluctantly returned.

"Take care of yourself," she whispered.

Sherlock nodded, but did not reply as she snatched the money from Mycroft's hand and stormed out of the cottage, without even grabbing her belongings. He didn't waste a moment before turning to his brother.

"What's going on?" He demanded.

"Don't be so dramatic," Mycroft replied. He sat aside his wet umbrella and began to strip off his wet suit jacket. "I simply needed someone to make sure you stay out of trouble."

"So you flew her in from _Australia_?"

"I assure you, Miss Hooper was relieved to see you."

"_Mrs._ Hooper," Sherlock muttered under his breath.

He threw himself back onto the couch, ignoring the pain from his ankle. He was determined to not have his brother inquire about his injuries. Nevertheless, he knew Mycroft wouldn't be able to stop himself from asking:

"Is it broken?"

Mycroft's gaze fell on his bandaged ankle but did not step towards him, as though afraid Sherlock might lash out and bite.

"No, Molly overreacted," Sherlock said. "Why are you here?"

He refused to give his brother any more reason to avoid answering.

"Better yet, where am I?" Sherlock said.

Sherlock felt more awake and aware than earlier, and now that he looked around the house he noticed more and more details.

"Chest drawers," he said, pointing to the furniture against the wall, "covered in dust, but above there are marks were someone once had nails in the wall. They were looking for somewhere to hang a painting- that painting." He pointed to a Van Gogh that was hanging behind the couch. "Excellent decision. But there are no marks on the furniture where picture frames might have been. The cabinets are coated with dust and are in need of repair; Molly was afraid to open the ones in the kitchen. Yet another excellent decision. However, someone still makes use of the house, as Molly found this hideous shirt. You had the address so it must be government related, but surely the British government wouldn't have a safe house in this poor of condition. You were able to easily get in without breaking and entering- not that you would know how- so you have the key. You're holding onto the key like it's something familiar or something you long for. And this godforsaken shirt has some kind of initial written on the tag. I would bet money that the initials are 'M.H.', just like Mummy used to write because she thought someone might actually want to steal our horrendous wardrobes. Your eyes lit up with appreciation when I mentioned the painting because it's _your_ painting. You love Van Gogh; you once had a very mismatched collection of his paintings in your bedroom, which leads to the only conclusion that you own this house. Another personal safe house? No, nowhere near the luxury and Edinburgh is too close for an escape. No- you have lived here before. In Scotland. You…in Scotland."

Sherlock stared at his brother, too in shock of his realizations to ask for explanations. Mycroft's eyes drifted towards the floor. Mycroft was rarely speechless, but Sherlock might as well have revealed that his brother was having an affair.

"I knew this would be a safe place for you to go," Mycroft stated quietly; he ran his over his face.

Sherlock realized how exhausted his brother looked, and now that he looked closer he suspected Mycroft was under the influence of some type of pain medication. As though he heard his theory, Mycroft's hand flew to his neck, messaging where he was clearly sore from the accident. His eyelids threatened to droop to a close; it wasn't the late hour that was making him drowsy but the medication.

"All I ever worry about is your safety." Mycroft's voice dropped to a whisper. His brother's eyes fell to the bruise on Sherlock's face from where he was hit earlier. "I apologize for hitting you."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. Offers of an apology were rare from Mycroft, and Mycroft must have known that he would refuse to forgive him. He swallowed, and continued:

"You're correct, as always. This is my house." Mycroft looked around the house, as though he were searching for something that he just could not find. "Or rather, it was going to be."

He let his brother continue without interruption. Though they were brothers, there were moments when Sherlock realized that Mycroft was a stranger to him- not that he had ever made an effort to get to know him very well.

Mycroft took a seat at the arm chair Molly was seated in only moments ago. He crossed his legs and rested his fingers under his chin as Sherlock had seen him do so many times. He still refused to look at Sherlock as he continued:

"My first year working with the British government was horrible. I was twenty-five years old and I thought I knew everything, but I quickly realized that I knew nothing. I started work in August of 1997…I don't need to tell you how tragic of a time that was."

Sherlock nodded. He understood- and remembered well. He had just turned eighteen and was old enough to remember that time like it was yesterday. Mycroft had left for his first week of work and didn't return for another three weeks; when he finally came home he looked like he literally hadn't slept the entire time. There was an obvious change in him- Mycroft had been more on edge than ever, more ready to start an argument and more eager to threaten to fight.

"The year never got better or any less stressful," Mycroft admitted, "and it didn't help that my baby brother was at home causing trouble, and every evening I would get a new phone call from Mother begging me to talk to you." Sherlock allowed the remark for the sake of wanting to hear more of the story. "Any chance of me having personal life was non-existent, but I learned to not care- I was only concerned about my career. Until I met Elizabeth."

Sherlock coughed, nearly choking on his words as he replied:

"There's a_ woman_ involved in this story?"

Mycroft did not look amused as he admitted:

"I was young and stupid, not so different from you when you were twenty-five."

"But I didn't ruin my life because of some mystery woman."

Mycroft's eyes became cold, and Sherlock realized how inappropriate the comment must be. From the tone of Mycroft's voice, Sherlock could deduce that the story must not have a very happy ending.

"We dated for eight months before I proposed to her," Mycroft said, "she was a year younger than I, but I could tell that she was serious about our…_future_. She was thrilled. Her family lived in Scotland, and when we discussed getting a home together she admitted she missed her country, and…I admit that I was having second thoughts about my career choice."

Sherlock wasn't sure which was more shocking: the thought of Mycroft getting married or the thought of Mycroft not wanting to work for the government. Even Sherlock knew it had been a dream of his since he was a teenager.

Mycroft looked around the house once more, and Sherlock couldn't help but to wonder what kind of memories he was recalling.

"I purchased this house and intended on giving Mother the news after Christmas." Sherlock snorted- their mother was always twice as stressed out over the holidays; this was probably a wise decision. "But on Christmas Eve Elizabeth was in a car crash while on business in Sicily. She passed away that night."

Sherlock froze. After a long pause in which Mycroft desperately avoid meeting his eyes Sherlock realized he had been holding his breath. He felt as though his heart might stop.

"You weren't there for Christmas that year," Sherlock realized softly, "you said it was because of business- Mother was furious."

"I was a mess," Mycroft said. He sighed and tilted his head so that it could rest in the palm of his hand, and suddenly he looked so much older than he had previously. "I was completely broken. I never told anyone. I thought it best to just move on. I became focused on my career again- it was the only thing that helped. I never again became so concerned with relationships or my personal life, but many nights I still wonder-"

And Sherlock wondered too: what kind of man would his brother be had he married at twenty-five? Perhaps he would even have _children_ now.

The thought was sickening.

"You never told anyone?" Sherlock asked.

His brother shook his head.

Sherlock studied him; somehow he was beginning to feel guilty. Somehow everything about his brother made perfect sense. His coldness, his distance with emotion. His hatred of Christmas.

"Christmas Eve-" he realized in horror.

Mycroft nodded- he looked ill.

Christmas Eve- the night their mother passed away too.

He felt like he should say something. _Sorry_, or some equally as empty gesture.

"God, Mycroft…" he muttered.

"It was a long time ago," Mycroft said, "like I said, I was young."

He didn't sound too convincing, but Sherlock didn't want to push the subject any further.

"Mother would have been happy," Sherlock whispered, "I think part of the reason she hated us was because she knew we would never give her grandchildren. Though why she thought we would want to bring anyone into this awful family, I don't know."

"Mother never hated us."

"Mother never hated _you_."

"Mother never hated you." Their eyes met for the first time; Mycroft seemed angrier than ever, and of course he was- he never allowed anyone to insult their dear mother. "Disappointment is far different from hate."

Sherlock slammed his fist against the wall beside him.

"Damn it, Mycroft!" He exclaimed. Mycroft only glared. "Why bring me here? I don't have time for this!"

"Oh, I am fully aware that you have _business_ to attend to," Mycroft shot, "Sherlock-" Mycroft hesitated, and Sherlock realized that he must be ready to admit that he was right about Kent. That was something that must have been devastating for his brother to realize. "As I said earlier, David Kent was the closest I ever had to a true friend. He was an outstanding member of my staff and a trustworthy colleague- or so I thought. I did some research. Four months ago he claimed to be heading to Brazil to track down a person of interest. When I inquired to the airline I was told that no one claimed the seat to the plane ticket Kent bought to Brazil, and his bank account revealed that he had purchased an additional ticket to the Ukraine. That was the same week an ambassador was murdered there. Similar cases came up when I researched his history further. I…I had always trusted Kent more than anyone else on my team so I never second guessed his travels. I don't know how long Kent was with Moran, but when I returned to my office I found a letter of recommendation from Kent. I also was told of a security threat that was received in Cardiff right before Kent was- right before Kent was murdered." Sherlock looked away; it still felt foreign to know he was the man behind that crime, though he could still remember the night like it was some horrific nightmare. "There was a spy in my own team, and god knows how many more there are. The more I discover about this the more I realize this goes far deeper than we realize."

Sherlock nodded, and replied:

"What do you want to do?"

Normally he would never offer his brother this kind of authority, but after all Mycroft had been through in the past couple of weeks he knew he at least owed him the right to make decisions.

"I will keep a close eye on my staff," Mycroft said, "when you are ready I am sending you to Amsterdam. One of the men connected with the security threat is there."

Sherlock knew "when you are ready" meant that he would leave in the morning, but he did not protest. Being in Scotland felt far too close to home. The countryside reminded him too much of Baskerville, which reminded him too much of John.

"But I will be keeping my distance from you for a while." Sherlock couldn't have been more pleased to hear this. "I have carefully handled Kent's case, but on the off chance that someone discovers the connection it will be a delicate situation to take care of. I will surely be interrogated, and I can't risk looking suspicious by being sidetracked by this _operation_."

"Fine," Sherlock muttered.

"There's a new identity waiting for you at this bank in Amsterdam," Mycroft said, handing him a piece of paper, "everything you need is in this safety deposit box. Do not assume this identity until after this next person of interest is taken care of. I will tell you everything you need to know tomorrow morning but for now, you need to rest."

By the tired look on Mycroft's face, Sherlock had a feeling that his brother meant "I need to rest".

He didn't want to protest, so he simply rested his head against the arm of the couch and stared at the ceiling, knowing sleep would be impossible after that conversation.

"Why did you never tell me about her?" Sherlock said quietly.

Mycroft sighed.

"Frankly Sherlock, you were never around to tell."

Sherlock closed his eyes, unwilling to admit the guilt he felt. The thought of his brother being _in love_ was absurd, but the thought of his brother keeping this secret for fifteen years was painfully horrific. He couldn't even begin to imagine the effort it must take to hide that kind of emotion.

But he refused to forgive his brother for everything just yet. He didn't know if he ever could.

Sherlock knew that if he opened his eyes he would see Mycroft staring at him, watching him with concern despite his anger. He kept his eyes closed pretending, as he did when he was a kid, that this meant that he could disappear- until he did disappear, into a restless sleep.


	15. Chapter 15

_Even as he stared at the brewing storm outside he was neither aware of the rain pounding against his window nor the man standing at his office door, calling his name. His mind was dozens of miles away, where Sherlock still remained in the rehab facility. It had been a week since Mycroft left him there, and he hadn't called to ask of his wellbeing. He knew what the answer would be._

_Sherlock was miserable. He would be miserable even if he wasn't going through a grueling phase of withdrawal, but he was _Sherlock_, and just this simple fact would make the process ten times worse. Mycroft was surprised that he hadn't received a call demanding his help or- more likely- refusing to keep Sherlock any longer._

"_Mycroft!"_

_Mycroft jumped, not used to hearing his name shouted at him in his own office. He wasn't surprised to find Daniel Kent standing there, staring at him in concern._

"_What I meant was, are you alright, Sir?" Kent said._

"_Yes, of course I am," Mycroft replied, "what did you need?"_

_Kent took a seat in one of the chairs by the desk. It was then Mycroft noticed the bloodied bandaged wrapped around his hand._

"_I've been interrogating Wallace," Kent replied, "and I've finally received some information that you might want to hear."_

"_Go ahead."_

"_But if it's a bad time-"_

"_Go ahead."_

_Kent hesitated, and Mycroft sighed. The two had been working together for nearly ten years now, and Kent was one of the few people he trusted enough to talk to about Sherlock. He knew Kent had been worried about him since admitting his brother into rehab, and he hadn't given him a reason not to._

"_I'm sorry," Mycroft offered, "I was distracted."_

"_Sherlock?" Kent asked. He nodded. "How is he doing?"_

"_I have no idea," Mycroft admitted. He paused, and then finally managed to ask: "Do you think it's wrong, that I haven't asked about him?"_

"_No," Kent replied, "he didn't think it was wrong to not speak to you for years."_

_Mycroft let out a harsh laugh._

"_That's beside the point," Mycroft said, "I always knew he needed help, but I just let him run away."_

"_You didn't let him. I know how hard you tried to bring him home."_

"_My brother doesn't even have a home," Mycroft pointed out. He let out an exasperated sigh and ran a hand over his face, realizing just how exhausted he was after a week of insomnia. "What is he going to do, after leaving rehab? Sherlock can't have a normal job, like a normal person."_

_Kent shrugged._

"_Why not?"_

"_He's _Sherlock_, you've met him."_

"_True," Kent said, and then paused, thoughtfully. "He'll be fine, Mycroft. You just have to take this step by step. Once he's off the drugs he'll be a different person." _

_Mycroft sighed once more, allowing his eyes to drift back towards the storm before replying:_

"_I hope so."_

* * *

><p>2013 crept by slowly, but relatively uneventfully. Mycroft hadn't spoken to Sherlock since sending him to Amsterdam three months ago; rather his brother was hiding, on the run, or on the search for someone else he had no idea.<p>

He woke one night in April to see that it was 3 AM. Groaning he rolled over, knowing he wouldn't manage to get enough sleep before needing to be at the office at 6. He flipped on a lamp, and his heart stopped when he realized he wasn't alone.

Sebastian Moran was sitting in a chair across from him.

"I'm glad you're awake."

Mycroft sat up slowly, reaching for the weapon he kept beneath the mattress.

"I've already found that one," Sebastian said, pointing to the gun at his feet. Mycroft instead reached towards the nightstand beside him- "and that one too."

He saw that Moran was twirling his knife in his fingertips.

"It must have been a tough week at work if you slept through all of that," Moran noted, "I'm afraid your week is about to get a little more complicated. You're about to get a phone call. A train derailed outside of London. Rumor has it that it wasn't an accident- and the rumor is correct."

"Why are you telling me this?" Mycroft demanded.

"I've warned you before, and I'm offering you one final warning now," Moran said. "You and your brother have been carrying on this game for nearly a year and a half now. Don't you think that's a little long? It could all be over-"

"You can threaten me, Moran," Mycroft stated, "but you don't frighten me."

Moran paused, considering the comment.

"Sherlock is in Russia, unsuccessfully tracking down another one of my men," Moran said, "you probably haven't heard from him because he's too ashamed to admit that in the past three months he has made no progress. Sherlock's no trained assassin, and I'm sure you do not approve of his methods."

Mycroft drew in a breath, not wanting to reveal how relieved he was to hear that at least Sherlock was alive. But hearing this news from Sebastian Moran did not make him feel too relieved.

"I know that you are still angry about Kent," Moran said, "my apologies for that one, but he was all too eager to play the British government when I found him, all those years ago. I'm sure you are realizing just how deep this goes. I do not make empty threats, Mr. Holmes. I know what I'm doing. Moriarty was good, but he was _nothing_ compared to me."

"You've been making these threats for years," Mycroft said, managing to keep his voice steady though he was shaking with anger, "but from what I see you are just words. You are dangerous, I have no doubt about that. But you are nowhere near as powerful as you think you are."

He knew this wasn't true; he knew exactly what Moran was capable of, and he knew that it did no good to threaten him. But it was worth it to see Moran's smug grin contort into a face full of wild disgust.

"As I said, Mr. Holmes, this is your final warning," Moran said, "if you want to see just how _dangerous_ I can be then I will be happy to show you."

With that Moran threw the gun at him and stuck the knife into the wall.

"If you want to kill me, be my guest," Moran growled, "butI know what you haven't told your brother. It's almost been a year and a half, Mr. Holmes. No need to make that two."

Moran flipped off the lamp and waltzed out of the room. Mycroft fell back into the pillows and gazed at the ceiling. He could try to follow Moran and easily capture him, but he knew it would be a useless effort- because he knew that Moran was right.


	16. Chapter 16

Author's Note: So far everyone seems to like the twists and turns in this story, so here's a big one! It's going to seem like there's a huge jump in time here, butdon't worry, you'll find out everything that has been going on. All will be explained, including issues brought up in recent chapters. I just thought this would be a fun and interesting way to tell this part of the story!

Warning: Drug use. Violence.

* * *

><p><em>Mycroft felt extraordinarily out of place as he walked through the police department. He kept his head down as he walked towards. D.I. Lestrade's office and knocked on the door. It took<br>the D.I. a few moments to answer as he finished up what sounded like an unpleasant phone call. _

"_Sorry about that," Lestrade said as he finally turned to him._

"_No worries."_

"_And sorry to make you come down here, but frankly I had no clue how to find you," the detective added._

_He decided to not point out the irony in a detective not being able to find someone and simply nodded._

"_Is this about Sherlock?" Mycroft asked._

_Dozens of possibilities crossed his mind on the way to the police department. He turned over theory after theory of how Sherlock could still be blamed for the shooting of the detective, for any number of things that he might not know about._

"_Yes," Lestrade said. He sounded distracted- worried- as he reached under a stack of files and pulled out a folder full of police reports. "How is he?"_

_Mycroft hesitated, surprised that he would even care._

"_Doing well," he lied._

_He finally called the rehab facility the night before and was told the worst of the withdrawal was over. Apparently Sherlock was now refusing to come out of his room- a matter he would have to deal with later._

"_Good, listen- I'm working on a case," Lestrade said, "an armed robbery, down on Griffth about three weeks ago. Our prime suspect is also now wanted in a second armed robbery involving attempted murder."_

"_And you think that I can help?" _

"_Actually, I think your brother can help."_

_Mycroft froze, stunned._

"_Sherlock?" He said._

_Lestrade studied him for a moment._

"_Mr. Holmes, Sherlock- your brother- told me that Griffith was one of the places he was staying," Lestrade explained._

_Mycroft simply stared at him, and Lestrade seemed to realize that he had no idea what he meant._

"_Sherlock told you that?" Mycroft said quietly._

_He couldn't help but to feel jealous, realizing that Lestrade probably knew more about the circumstances under which Sherlock did than he did. _

"_Yeah," Lestrade said, swallowing nervously- clearly uncomfortable. "It was all in the report anyway…um- we're kind of hitting a dead end with this one. I was just thinking that, if Sherlock really did stay down there, perhaps he saw something-"_

"_Out of all of Griffith Street you believe that Sherlock just happened to be in front of this particular shop and witnessed this particular robbery?"_

_Lestrade glanced away and hid his face in his head a moment._

"_Look, I'm not saying that, but maybe he heard about it," Lestrade said, "the homeless, they have networks, like workplace gossip-"_

"_My brother is not homeless."_

"_This is the third robbery that's happened in that part of town in the past few weeks," Lestrade continued, ignoring him, "and people are getting scared. I'm just trying to pull from all potential sources. This particular shop is open 24-hours and it was four A.M. so there wasn't the usual street crowd around for possible witnesses."_

_Mycroft hesitated. He had hoped that by pulling his brother off the streets he could put that life behind him. The last thing he wanted was to drag up the past and cause trouble. Yet as someone who dealt with criminals on a daily basis he could understand where Lestrade was coming from._

"_My brother's in a secure rehab facility," Mycroft began quietly, "he's going through a grueling withdrawal phase, and I'm not sure he's up for visitors."_

"_Give me five minutes," Lestrade offered, "that's all I need."_

_Mycroft nodded. After all, Sherlock seemed at least someone opened to speaking with the detective previously- perhaps it would be good for him to have a visitor, even if it was over a police matter._

"_Five minutes," Mycroft agreed. _

* * *

><p>The next time Mycroft saw his brother it was a year later, in April of 2014. Sherlock had been officially dead for two years, and Mycroft was beginning to have to convince himself that he was still alive.<p>

Each week he searched through international papers, looking for any signs of his brother- and being relieved when he found none.

He hadn't seen John since his mother's funeral, and the other connections to Sherlock's life- Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson, D.I. Lestrade, seemed like characters from a children's book, too distant to be real.

All he felt like he had left was his work with the government, and he knew his team grew suspicious as they noticed he was at the office more and more often. Mycroft had to remind himself that he needed to go home every now and then, and when he stepped outside London felt like a dream.

Spring of 2014 was colder than normal, a fitting toast to the bitterness that was sweeping London off its feet. He was reminded every day that the crime rate was rising. Already his staff had dealt with a number of high-priority bank robberies, international threats, and even a few assassination tips. Rumors were starting to fly that a conspiracy were on the rise- even though two years had passed since Moriarty, his legacy lived on well. Mycroft spent many of his nights trying to connect the events and linking them to those who were on his and Sherlock's own most wanted list, but the results came up blank each time. He felt like he was missing something- a vital clue-and it frustrated him to no end knowing that this would be easier to figure out were he able to communicate with Sherlock.

It was eleven A.M. that day in April, but Mycroft had already been in the office a full six hours when the secretary knocked on the door.

"Sir, the police are on the phone. A D.I. Lestrade wishes to speak with you."

Mycroft looked up, in shocked to hear the name that sounded so foreign to him.

"Put him through," Mycroft ordered, picking up the phone. He paused, a thousand horrible ideas running through his mind. "Detective."

There was silence on the other line for a moment; this must have been a surreal moment for Lestrade as well.

"Mr. Holmes," Lestrade stated, "we're in need of your service."

"What can I do for you?"

He realized it had been years- two, exactly- since he needed to interfere with any police investigation. That fact alone warned him that this surely had to do with Sherlock.

"There has been bank robbery this morning," Lestrade explained, "two armed men stormed the lobby and took the bank manager and teller hostage before the bank opened. The manager offered them keys to the vault, but they want something more- they wish to speak to you, Sir."

Mycroft didn't reply. He wasn't sure if he was disappointed or relieved that this didn't have to do with Sherlock.

"Mr. Holmes, if you aren't comfortable with this, I completely understand," Lestrade offered, "I know with our history-"

"It's fine," Mycroft said. "Give the address to the secretary, and I will be there shortly."

Twenty minutes later he was being briefed by a sergeant on the updated situation: one of the victims had been shot in the shoulder when they refused to cooperate. His eyes wondered around the chaotic crime scene, searching for the detective who he finally noticed talking to a paramedic that was on standby.

Lestrade glanced his way, and their eyes met. A decade's worth of memories passed between them. Though Mycroft did not know the inspector well, he knew he was one of the few people his brother could tolerate being around. And the inspector was one of the few people who could tolerate being around his brother.

He noticed that others at the crime scene noticed the tension between the two- sergeants who surely were aware of the legend of Sherlock Holmes. Mycroft ignored the wondering eyes as he walked up the inspector.

"Inspector," Mycroft said, shaking the man's hand.

Mycroft noted right away that Lestrade looked older. He had aged ten years in the past two. He looked as though sleep was not a part of his regular routine and, most noticeable, his wedding ring was gone.

"Thanks for coming down," Lestrade said, "as you were just told, these men are armed and dangerous. I understand if you don't want to put yourself in harm's way."

"Dealing with dangerous men is what I do," Mycroft replied. "Do you have any idea why they are asking for me?"

Lestrade shook his head.

"They wouldn't say," Lestrade said, "they just said this could only end well if they spoke to you."

"Very well."

"My men will get you suited up," Lestrade continued, "you'll wear a wire and a bullet proof vest, of course."

"No need," he said, ignoring Lestrade's look of surprise, "these men are serious, they know what they're doing, and they will know what to look for when I enter."

"We can arrange for this to be done by phone-"

"No. They need to believe that I am in control," when Lestrade still didn't look convinced, Mycroft added: "I have handled hundreds of hostage situations. This will go smoothly."

Lestrade nodded.

"Let's get started then," he said, "just so you are aware we have snipers ready across the street and on the rooftops. My team is getting impatient, they don't understand why I am waiting for you. But I know what you are capable of-"

"It was good that you phoned me."

Lestrade looked relieved to hear this. He also looked as though there were something he needed to say, but he was struggling to find the courage.

"Mr. Holmes…" Lestrade finally began, his words quickly trailing as a pained look appeared in his eyes. "I still think- I still can't help but to think, if I hadn't arrested him-"

A sick feeling developed inside him as he realized what Lestrade meant; John wasn't the only one feeling guilt after the fall.

"I never understood what went on inside my brother's head," Mycroft began softly, "we both know the things he struggled with, but we both know how strong he was. I don't understand what happened but I know this- you can't blame yourself. You were only doing your job-"

"I should have protested-"

"I assure you-"

"After all those years, and I still dared to question him," Lestrade interrupted. "And god, what John's been through, what he saw- it's the only explanation I can think of. He thought I lost faith in him, and that angered him- or that scared him- enough to-"

Mycroft drew in a deep breath when he realized Lestrade actually appeared to be on the verge of tears.

"I don't blame you," he said. He closed his eyes, sincerely hating what he had to do. "And I know Dr. Watson doesn't. Now, Detective, I appreciate what you are trying to do, but I wish nothing more than for you to be able to move forward. I think we all need to." Lestrade seemed truly relieved to hear this. "But for now, we have work to do."

Five minutes later he entered the bank. His footsteps echoed the quiet lobby as he approached the two masked robbers and their victims, who were tired up and seated against a desk. They were shaking, and the woman- the teller- was clutching a bleeding shoulder. Mycroft's eyes shifted to the two robbers, and he was surprised when one of them met his eyes.

Somehow, there was something familiar about them.

"Good," the other robber announced, "finally, we can get started."

The man had an eastern European accent- Hungary, he decided. The second robber stormed towards him, taking him roughly by the arm with a gloved hand. A gun was pointed at his head as he was led to a nearby conference room.

There were a dozen questions he could have asked, but he knew it best to wait until spoken to. He was thrown into the room and the door slammed behind him.

A gunshot went off. His eyes flew towards the sound and saw the robber had shot the security camera, which fell to the floor with a crash.

Mycroft turned around, without thinking, and was surprised to see that the robber had removed his mask.

"Did I tell you that you could turn around?"

He froze when it was his own brother's voice that spoke to him.

Sherlock looked serious for a moment as Mycroft studied him. He seemed- _unwell_, was the word that came to mind. It was quite similar to the state Lestrade found him in that very first night with Moran. His cheeks were sunken into his shallow, pale face. His hair had grown out once more into a ragged mess and dyed strawberry _blonde_ of all colours. His arms were bony and his body skeletal, but his words had seemed every bit the part of the bank robber he was playing.

Then Sherlock lowered the gun, and grinned. Even the smile seemed unfamiliar and wicked.

"I'm impressed," Sherlock said as Mycroft continued to stand there, stunned. "That only took the police two bloody hours to put together. Imagine if this had been a real hostage situation."

"Sherlock…" he actually found himself at a loss for words. "Sherlock…that woman was shot."

Sherlock appeared to be honestly sickened by the statement.

"Yes," he replied quietly, "I didn't mean for that to happen. I insisted that she receive medical care as soon as you arrived."

"Sherlock-" Mycroft studied his brother once more, searching for answers but found none as their eyes met for the first time, "it's almost been a year and a half." Despite the fact that he had apparently arranged the scenario, Sherlock seemed just as startled to hear this. "Where have you been?"

"Eastern Europe," Sherlock replied.

"I gathered," Mycroft said, "who is that that you're with? What _is_ this?"

"There will be time for all of that," Sherlock said.

His brother glanced at a watch that was hidden beneath his black jumper- a watch that was far too expensive for him to possess.

"Listen, Mycroft, this will all turn out alright but you have to do as I say."

Mycroft snorted.

"Are you really attempting to take me hostage, little brother?"

"No," Sherlock shot. He paused, meeting Mycroft's eyes once more. "I'm in trouble, Mycroft. I need to get out."

It was one of the first times Mycroft had seen his brother genuinely frightened, and it scared _him_- angered him- that Sherlock was in a situation so terrible that he was in over his head.

"I need to die. Again."

"Aren't there limits on how many times one can be resurrected?" Mycroft smirked.

"Mycroft!" Sherlock exclaimed, shaking with anger. Mycroft realized how unstable he was, how paler than usual he was, and how sickly he seemed. "I need your help."

Mycroft stared at him, wishing he didn't have to notice how desperate Sherlock was. There were very, very few times in their relationship that Sherlock had said those words, and each situation was a time he would never want to relive.

At last Mycroft sighed, and replied:

"Of course. But Sherlock- you owe me an explanation."

Sherlock nodded, looking relieved.

"That man doesn't know this, but I'm wearing a bulletproof vest," Sherlock said, "when we get back into the lobby, you can attack me. Shoot the other man first, then me."

Mycroft stared at him in disbelief.

"Sherlock, I'm not going to shoot you."

"Bulletproof vest, Mycroft!" Sherlock exclaimed. "I'll be fine. The impact will be enough to knock me out for a while, and this will help make it more realistic-"

Mycroft's heart skipped a beat when Sherlock swiftly withdrew a syringe and rolled up his sleeve.

"Sherlock!" He cried.

Sherlock ignored him as he jabbed the needle into his arm. Mycroft held his breath as Sherlock withdrew the needle. His brother closed his eyes, adjusting to whatever the drug was; when he opened his eyes he stumbled back a few steps. Raising hand to his head, Sherlock steadied himself before he looked back at him and grinned.

"Everything will work perfectly."

"I'm glad you think so," Mycroft muttered, "Sherlock, this is absurd, the police-"

"Will think it was defense," Sherlock said, "you'll be a hero."

"And what about when they unmask their robber only to realize it is their formerly dead consulting detective?"

Sherlock smirked.

"Are you or are you not the British government?" Sherlock shot. "Or have you retired since I've been gone?"

"Of course not."

"Then just tell them you need to take the body back to one of your government facilities," Sherlock said, "after all it's not like you would let the police handle the attack of one of your own. Or, well, you. Don't let them touch the body. Phone this number when it is done. This person will act as your driver and will take the body. You can trust them."

"This is insane, Sherlock!"

Sherlock glanced back at the golden watch.

"We're running out of time," Sherlock muttered under his breath. "Let's go."

With that Sherlock put the mask back on, grabbed him by the arm, and held the gun to his head once more as he led him back into the lobby.

"And?" The Hungarian said when they entered the room.

Mycroft was relieved to see that the injured hostage had been released.

"He's agreed," Sherlock replied.

He shoved Mycroft forward, a little too harshly. When Mycroft glanced back he noticed that Sherlock winked at him; he took this as his cue.

He swung his fist forward, hitting Sherlock squarely across his nose. Sherlock immediately loosened his grip on the gun as he cried out and stepped back. Mycroft winced- rather he was acting or not, his brother seemed to fall back far too easily after being hit.

But Mycroft wasted no time before spinning around and pulling the trigger. The bullet hit the Hungarian in the chest, and Mycroft realized just then that he didn't know if the man was wearing a bulletproof vest as well.

Mycroft then turned back to Sherlock. He hesitated for a split second and then closed his eyes, unable to watch as the bullet rushed through the air and sent his brother crashing to the ground.

Within seconds the police stormed the lobby, and Lestrade appeared beside him.

"Are you alright?" Lestrade asked.

Mycroft could only nod. It took him a moment to take in everything that was happening- the fact that someone was kneeling beside his brother's stiff body - before he remembered to say:

"I need to take the bodies with me," Mycroft said. He pointed at Sherlock. "That one, first. Don't move it, don't touch it. I'll take everything from here."

Lestrade glanced at him, confused, but nodded. He must have known from experience that it was useless to argue with him.

"Whatever you need," Lestrade said, "our medic wants to take a look at you."

Mycroft shook his head.

"No need," he said, "I'll have a driver here in a few minutes to take the body with me."

Lestrade nodded, his eyes drifting away momentarily. Obviously he wasn't sure which parting words to say.

"Thanks for your help, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade said, "I'm sorry it had to end this way."

"It is what it is," Mycroft replied, "take care of yourself, inspector."

Their eyes met briefly and Lestrade nodded, but Mycroft had a feeling that he was in no better way than he was two years ago. As he watched Lestrade walk away he once again felt as though he were in a dream. He closed his eyes, taking a moment to be thankful that at least he knew where Sherlock was.

Then he withdrew his mobile and dialed the number, simply telling whoever it was on the other line:

"It's done."


	17. Chapter 17

The world was hazy. Everything dark, fuzzy, with someone calling his name from somewhere distant, but all Sherlock could remember being in a bank.

Suddenly his eyes flew open, and Sherlock could see that it wasn't dark but bright. His vision darted in an out of focus as he tried to find the source of the voice.

"Sherlock, breathe." Someone instructed.

He tried to obey, but instead found himself choking on air.

"Breathe," said the voice once again.

His heart skipped a few beats, but he was finally able to obey. After blinking a few times his vision regained focus and was able to take in what was going on.

He was laying down in the back of a car. The London skyline was passing by, which confused him more than anything else. Even with his fuzzy memory, the one thing he did remember clearly was that London was the one place in the world he wasn't supposed to be.

"Breathe," the voice said one final time.

Sherlock obeyed, letting out a deep sigh as he at last felt better. He looked up, discovering who was talking to him: Mycroft.

And suddenly the memories came flooding back. St. Bart's. Moriarty. Having to say goodbye to John. America- and somehow, ending up in eastern Europe.

Looking down, he noted the black jeans he was wearing, the sweatshirt that was thrown over him like a blanket, and the bulletproof vest beside him with a bullet hole right in the center.

"Nice shot," Sherlock muttered.

Without replying, Mycroft helped him sit up. He realized that he was in the back of a government issues van, on a stretcher which of course made since, considering he was supposed to be dead- again.

"What was that you took?" Mycroft said at last.

"Morphine."

Mycroft looked away; Sherlock might as well have slapped him in the face.

"Don't get so excited, I'm not using," Sherlock shot.

Mycroft shoved something in front of his face- he empty syringe bottle.

"You almost overdosed!" Mycroft exclaimed. "You took enough to knock yourself out."

"Yes, that was the point."

"You could have killed yourself."

Sherlock looked up, meeting his brother's eyes for the first time in over a year. Mycroft certainly looked older, like he had aged five years in the past 15 months. He hadn't been sure how his brother would react to this plan, but he knew it wouldn't be well. For that moment he worried that Mycroft would refuse to listen to him…

He ran a hand over his face, feeling the dried blood that trailed beneath his nose. He couldn't help but to laugh.

"The last time we spoke you punched me in the nose," he noted.

Mycroft clearly wasn't amused; in fact he looked _disgusted_.

"How could you be so stupid?" Mycroft began quietly. "Coming back to London? Sherlock- Lestrade was there! He was in charge of the investigation. And you knew, you _knew_ he was there."

"No I didn't."

"But you knew there was a chance!" Mycroft exclaimed. "And you just- you just _assumed_ that I would step in and save you."

Sherlock closed his eyes.

"I had no choice," he admitted. His eyes flew open, meeting Mycroft's again. "Do you have any idea how hard it was for me to come back here and ask for your help?"

"Then tell me why you're here,"Mycroft said. "Where have you been?"

Sherlock looked around, noticing that they were still in the heart of London.

"We need to go to somewhere safe," Sherlock said. "Where did you tell her to go?"

"Her?" Mycroft repeated. "When I got out of the bank there was a van waiting for me, like you said. I never saw the driver, they just took off after my men helped me get you inside."

"Your _men_?" Sherlock exclaimed. "You got the government involved?"

"I couldn't just take a body away from a crime scene by myself. If I was going to make this look real I had to make it look like an actual government request. Otherwise not only would it have made me look suspicious, but my own men would be suspicious, were they to find out. No one saw your face- I told them this was a very high profile case."

"So where do they think you're taking me?"

"A special facility for MI5," Mycroft said. He turned to him. "Where are we really going?"

Sherlock looked out the window, pleased to see that they were already leaving the city center. To be surrounded by London felt too surreal; now more than ever he felt like none of this could be real.

"All my life I hardly left England," Sherlock stated quietly, "and now I've been gone for two and a half years. The world thinks I'm dead and lately- lately I've actually felt dead."

He swallowed, realizing how dry his throat felt and how hoarse his voice was.

"Sherlock…" Mycroft hesitated and looked away, and somehow Sherlock knew what he was going to ask.

Before Mycroft could continue, he rolled up the sleeves of his black jumper, revealing that his arms were free of injection marks.

"I'm clean," Sherlock insisted.

"Then where did you get the drugs?"

Sherlock shrugged.

"It was easy."

Mycroft didn't push the subject, and Sherlock didn't protest. However, he couldn't help but to point out the irony.

"I've been gone for a year and all you do is question me about drugs?" Sherlock smirked. "Typical."

"You've been gone for fifteen months. I have no idea where you've been, what you have been doing, or who you have been with. So forgive me if I assume the worst."

"I'm flattered."

Mycroft looked up at him again, studying him. Sherlock refused to meet his eyes, feeling uncomfortable as he knew Mycroft would be able to decipher each detail about him.

"You look terrible," Mycroft stated.

"Thanks."

"You haven't been taking care of yourself," his brother continued, ignoring him, "you've been living in eastern Europe, but not Hungary. You were there for a while, yes, but not for long. No- your new accent is actually slipping. But it's not a new accent, is it? You've been trying to fool someone; you've been playing a part. I sent you off to Amsterdam fifteen months ago, but you didn't stay there too long- or at least I hope not. No, from there you ran, all the way to Austria, where you hid in plain sight for a while. Amsterdam didn't go to well, then? But somehow this all worked out for the best- until now."

Mycroft paused, signaling that he was finished. Sherlock glared at him, unamused by the mocking of his usual method of deductions.

"Are you through?" Sherlock shot. "I suppose you got all that from how my hair is styled?"

His brother smirked and withdrew something from his jacket pocket.

"A receipt for a train ticket from Vienna to Brussels," Mycroft said, "dated two weeks ago. Found it in your back pocket, which suggests that you have been wearing the same clothing for at least two weeks- a whole separate issue. That was my first clue. Then I noticed you had a slightly different accent, but you haven't been gone long enough to develop a new accent. You're not very skilled with your pronunciation and wording, which suggests that you haven't been practicing too long. Therefore I gather, a few weeks stay in Amsterdam, a month or two fleeing through Europe, three months hiding Austria before you were found. Seven months working for whomever it is that you are working for and three since you have been planning whatever it is you're in London for. And now…now Sherlock, you are frightened. You're truly frightened, and that it why you had to get out. Tell me Sherlock, what it is that's so bad that you had to fake your death for a second time? Whatever is going on- did you plan it in London simply for an easy escape?"

Hands curling into fists, Sherlock let the anger rush through him, knowing that now was not the time to insult Mycroft. He wasn't sure which fueled his anger more- the mocking or the fact that his brother was _exactly right_.

"You got me, Mycroft," Sherlock said, unable to help the trembling in his voice. "You should be proud. I'm sure it amuses you to know end, knowing how desperately I need your help."

Glancing up, he was sincerely surprised to see that Mycroft actually did not look amused.

"It does not amuse me, Sherlock, it worries me," Mycroft admitted. "Who were you working with?"

Sherlock ignored him and instead closed his eyes, leaning his head against the wall that separated the front of the van from the back.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft exclaimed, but again Sherlock ignored him.

With his eyes closed he suddenly felt relaxed, and he relished in the chance to drift away.

When he woke again, Sherlock glanced down at his watched and saw a couple of hours had passed. They were now out of London entirely and entering into the countryside. He looked up and met Mycroft's eyes, which told him his brother had stayed awake throughout the trip.

"You passed out," Mycroft told him.

"I fell asleep," Sherlock corrected, "there is a difference."

With a dramatic sigh Mycroft ran his hands over his face, revealing how exhausted he must be. Suddenly Mycroft looked out the window and froze.

"What are we doing here?"

Sherlock straightened up so that he could peer out the window, and a smile of satisfaction crossed his face.

"Sherlock, we haven't been here in over ten years!"

"Exactly," Sherlock said, "no one will suspect that I will be here- let alone you."

As the van pulled into the long driveway Sherlock remained silent as his eyes fell on his childhood home for the first time in over a decade. The mansion stood out amongst the quiet countryside, but its shattered shutters and rotting roof highlighted its years in solitude. Mycroft remained silent as well as nearly twenty years' worth of memories passed between them.

"When we were kids you used to tell me that there was nothing I couldn't tell you," Sherlock stated solemnly, "I had hoped that you would still maintain that promise."

Mycroft's eyes remained on their home as he replied:

"Of course."

The van came to a stop, and Sherlock remained quiet as the engine fell silent. Mycroft's eyes drifted to him, searching for an answer before it would be revealed who had been driving them, but Sherlock didn't speak.

At last the back of the van opened, and Mycroft froze once again when his eyes fell on their driver.

"Didn't your mother ever tell you not to accept rides from strangers?" Irene Adler stated with a smirk.

Sherlock couldn't help but to grin as he turned to his brother, while stretching out his arm and allowing Irene to help him out of the van.

"Not many can say that they are a master of death, Mr. Holmes," Irene said. "I have to admit, I am impressed."

"As am I," Mycroft growled, glaring at Irene, "I thought you were going to quit."

"I did," Irene said as Mycroft stepped out of the vehicle, "I quit working for Moran, that is. But I have burned far too many bridges to be able to disappear completely."

"She's alright, Mycroft," Sherlock assured, "she helped me plan this."

Mycroft didn't take his eyes off Irene.

"I'm sure she did."

Ignoring him, Sherlock turned back to Irene. He wanted to say something, something of gratitude, perhaps, but he was startled to find his words trapped in his throat. Irene beamed, as though not surprised by this.

"Are you alright?" She asked him quietly.

"As though you care," Mycroft shot as they began walking towards the house. Sherlock and Irene exchanged glances and he nodded, which earned him a smile of relief. "I suppose she is staying with us?"

"I suppose I must," Irene smirked, "you're welcome, by the way."

Mycroft stopped walking and Irene followed, turning to him.

"For what?" Mycroft demanded.

"For saving your brother from hell," Irene shot, "and the evil he managed to align himself with."

Sherlock glared at her, embarrassed to have his faults called out like this.

"Irene-" he warned.

"Relax, Sherlock," Irene said, smiling though she and his brother still refused to take their eyes off each other. "Well, this is your home. Lead the way."

* * *

><p>Sherlock accepted the glass of water Mycroft handed him and rested against the cupboards, grateful for the moment of silence. The tension between Mycroft and Irene was all too obvious, and he knew he had been correct in thinking it would affect the plan.<p>

"What are we hiding from, Sherlock?" Mycroft said, breaking the silence. "It seems that if something were to happen in London that we would need to be in London."

"Something is going to happen in London," Sherlock admitted, "but not today. We have time, but not much. Luckily, I happen to be the one that planned all of this." He grinned, but his face fell when he saw Mycroft's disgusted look. "Mycroft, I have to ask you to trust me. Please."

He paused, meeting his brother's eyes once again. Mycroft studied him for a minute before nodding.

"Of course," he replied quietly.

Sherlock hesitated, unsure of where to start.

"Just start at the beginning," Mycroft instructed, as though reading his mind, "Amsterdam."

"Right, Amsterdam," Sherlock nodded. "Amsterdam…Well, Amsterdam went terribly."

* * *

><p>Author's Note: This is the point where I want to ask- how much do you guys like Irene Adler? Personally I really like her character and the potential she has...but I know a lot of fans don't like her, so I don't want to torture you guys with story lines you won't be interested in because of her.<p> 


	18. Chapter 18

**Warnings:** violence, drug use

* * *

><p>Sherlock woke to the sound of a leaking pipe and the distant sound of cars speeding by on wet pavement. He was shivering; the sound of the rain reminded him how cold the night air was and how drenched he was from running around in the storm all night. Lightening flashed, allowing him to see that he was being kept in an abandoned building. His hands were tied tightly behind him, and when he tried to open his mouth to breathe he realized he was gagged. He breathed in through his nose, nearly choking at the restraint.<p>

"Good, you're awake."

He glared at the figure approaching him: the target he failed miserably at taking care of. Annabeth Abrams. According to Mycroft, Abrams was at the top of several current most wanted lists. She was mainly involved in plotting bomb threats- none of which had successfully been carried out. However, it was clear that she was working for someone else (Moran), and the one thing she had become accomplished at was running.

And hiding. In The Netherlands.

"Far too many men have made the mistake of not taking me seriously," she said with a smirk. As she approached him, he could now see the rifle swinging beside her. "Congratulations, you have just made that list."

Her German accent echoed against the hollow walls as she stood before him. She studied him for a moment, and although she clearly wasn't too much older than him nor that much stronger, he suddenly admitted- only to himself- that he regretted not taking her more seriously.

Suddenly her arm swung forward and the rifle knocked against his forehead, _hard_. He continued to glare at her, breathless from wheezing, as he felt a cool substance form on his forehead. She removed the gag from his mouth and he gasped, grateful for the sudden rush of stale-tasting air.

"Who do you work for?" Abrams demanded. "Tell me."

"No one."

A cold laughter ignited in the dark room.

"I'm sure," she replied. With one sudden movement she grabbed a handful of his hair and jerked his neck back, forcing him to look up at her. "My concern is not with you. You were sent to kill me, so I imagine you have no idea who I really am. I can let you go, but you must tell me, who do you work for?"

He refused to answer, earning him a kick to the ribs, which sent the chair darting backwards.

"Who do you work for?" She demanded, the angry words bouncing around him, echoing against the rain.

Suddenly, he had an idea.

"Sebastian Moran."

He reminded himself to stay calm, breathing easily as she spun around. She stared at him, frozen.

"What did you say?" She whispered.

Sherlock had to stop himself from smiling.

"Sebastian Moran," Sherlock repeated, "he sends his regards, but he's been very disappointed with you lately. None of your plans have worked, and you're putting him at risk."

Abrams looked away, holding a hand over her mouth, as though she might be sick. She shook her head in disgust, muttering to herself in German.

"He's disappointed?" She repeated slowly. He tensed as she turned around and stepped closer to him. "_Moran_ is disappointed? Sebastian Moran is disappointed in _me?"_

She exclaimed her last words with such a force that her fist swung around- as though on instinct- crashing squarely against his jaw.

"Don't kill the messenger," he muttered.

Just as he had a chance to catch his breath she punched him again.

He spat as a salty taste developed in his mouth: blood. His eyes remained glued to the floor for the moment as he attempted to breathe normally.

"Oh, I won't be killing you tonight," Abrams hissed.

She pulled a syringe from her pocket, and Sherlock froze when he recognized right away what had been inserted into it. He wanted to protest, to fight back, but he knew it would be useless as she walked towards him for the last time.

"I'm going to put you to sleep for tonight," Abrams began quietly, "and when you wake up, I will be long gone from this country. When you leave I want you to go back and tell Moran that our deal is up. He can keep his disappointment. If he he's not even man enough to come tell me this himself, then he doesn't deserve the courtesy of receiving my notice. You can tell Moran that I quit. I've received better offers than his, anyway."

He told himself to look away, but Sherlock's eyes remained glued to his arm as he watched her rolled his sleeve up. Without bothering to properly find a good vein she stabbed the needle in him and he gasped, closing his eyes briefly at the impact. Abrams smirked, but he didn't have the heart to care, knowing he would thankfully never see her again after tonight. If he couldn't succeed in _taking care_ of her, he knew Mycroft would.

"Have a safe flight home," she smirked.

As the world became foggy the sounds of her heals clicking against the cement floor grew more and more distant. His breathing seemed to become louder, rougher, as the pounding rain became more intense. All the sounds seemed to mix in as one, becoming all too overwhelming until at last darkness took over.

* * *

><p>"Sir?"<p>

An extraordinary pain ripped through him as he felt someone's hand tapping against his cheek.

"Sir? Can you hear me?"

A woman's voice. An American.

"Sir?"

Sherlock attempted to open his eyes but was immediately met with a blinding spotlight. He knew it must only be sun seeping through windows, but someone may as well have been shining the largest flashlight in the world right in his eyes. He swallowed, but his throat felt too raw to answer back. His memories were fuzzy with flashes of Scotland, a German woman, and a rainstorm. As everything began to fall back into place Sherlock wished for nothing more than to be unconscious again. He felt far too weak to deal with this now.

"Can you hear me?" The American repeated.

Against his will his neck moved, nodding- a silent reply. A cold hand rested against his forehead; he shivered at the touch.

"No fever," the American said.

He was relieved to hear so. He attempted to move each muscle but found everything from his face to his ribs too sore to move.

"Don't try to sit up," the American warned, "we think you cracked a rib."

_We?_ What he did not need right not was for a "we" to get involved in this disaster.

At last he forced his eyes opened, and as he fought the bright sunlight Sherlock found the smiling face of a young blonde woman staring back at him.

"Hi," she said.

Sherlock looked around. The "we" she must have been referring to was a man who was hovering behind her, sifting through what looked like a miniature first aid kit.

"That's Paul," she explained, "I'm Hannah. What's your name?"

He realized that he hadn't prepared an alias. His alias was locked away in an Amsterdam bank, waiting to be revealed. Thinking quickly, he spoke with his best American accent as he replied:

"Chris," and on second thought added: "Christopher."

"Right," Hannah said, "well Chris, looks like you got yourself in pretty bad shape."

He just stared at her and blinked, wondering what the purpose of such an obvious statement was. She took the liberty of lifting up his arm to show him the rolled up sleeve and darkened bruise where the needle struck.

"Someone drugged you," she explained. "Not to mention the facial bruising, possible cracked rib, and head injury."

Sherlock noted that she sounded too official to be a passerby. Hannah's partner- Paul, who looked to be in his early 40s- seemed too confused by the first aid kit to be in the medical field. There were few reasons for the average citizen to wonder into an empty building such as this, and it was even more suspicious that these citizens happened to be _American_.

"I was mugged," Sherlock lied.

She gazed at him, clearly faking concern as she tried to decipher what he really meant.

"You were drugged," she repeated, "did you take these drugs?"

"Clearly they were forced on me," Sherlock shot, "the entry-point is far too unsteady for me to have made, and it was obviously made by someone using their left hand." He recalled that the German woman had indeed been left handed. "It would be a little hard for me administer a drug into that same arm, wouldn't it?"

Hannah frowned, and he realized she must have been taken aback by the sarcasm. Sherlock swallowed, reminding himself that obviously she wasn't Lestrade; he couldn't behave like this if he wanted to get out of here without being caught.

"Sorry," he offered sincerely, "look, I'm just a tourist. I got separated from my friends, I got lost, I got mugged, and someone drugged me. I don't take being accused of taking drugs too lightly."

The American studied him for another moment, but at last nodded.

"Right," she said, "sorry, Christopher. But really, Paul and I are going to get you some help. You should be in a hospital."

Sherlock shook his head, trying to ignore the panic that immediately rose within him at the word "hospital".

"It was just a mugging that got out of hand," he pleaded, "please, I'm on vacation. I don't want to spend the rest of it in the hospital."

Hannah glanced behind her, her eyes connecting with her partners. He nodded, and Sherlock realized Paul must have been listening closely to their conversation.

"At least let Paul stitch your head up," she said. She glanced back at Paul, who seemed all too unwilling to do the task. Nevertheless he stuck his hands into his pockets and nodded.

"Yeah man," Paul replied, "I'm no doctor, but I was the only person who didn't fall asleep during the first aide class."

Sherlock froze, startled by the phrase.

"It's only a joke," Paul reassured, "they made sure we could all pass the assessments."

He expected Hannah to roll her eyes or laugh at Paul's bad joke, but instead she reached into her pocket…and pulled out a badge.

"We're FBI."

_Shit._

Sherlock stared at her, wishing desperately that in his state of distress he imagined her saying that. But as he studied her badge and as Paul revealed his own credentials, he could examine them well enough to know they weren't lying.

It took him a full moment of panic to remember they hadn't said who they were searching for.

"Why don't you let us help you, and we'll ask you a few question," Hannah said. "I'm Agent Wilson and this is Agent Dobbs. We've been in Amsterdam for the past few days in pursuit of a woman who is currently using the alias Annabeth Abrams."

He had to remind himself to breathe at the sound of the familiar name. Somehow, knowing that the three of them were after the same person didn't ease his anxiety at all. More than ever he wished he had Mycroft's influence to help, but Sherlock knew that no matter what, these agents could not find out who he really was.

At last Sherlock nodded, knowing that he had no choice at the moment but to go along with her suggestion.

A few minutes later Paul finally had the first aid kit straightened out. Sherlock's hands grasped against the cement floors as Paul worked the needle and thread through the wound on his forehead. Annabeth sat with her knees drawn to her chest, watching carefully as Paul began to stitch the wound.

"You lost quite a bit of blood," Paul said, "do you feel lightheaded at all?"

He did, but Sherlock still shook his head no.

"I feel fine."

Paul smirked.

"I'm sure," he said, "you know, you remind me of my little brother. He always used to get himself into trouble, but no matter how many times he came home with a black eye he always said he felt fine. He never would admit that he was bullied."

Hannah rolled his eyes.

"I don't think he cares about your little brother, Paul," she said.

Sherlock knew the story was the agent's attempt to distract him from the stitching. It worked momentarily, as he considered how similar Paul's story would be to Mycroft's, were he to be in this situation. He couldn't help but to wonder how many stories Mycroft told about his younger brother, who would have a history very relatable to some of the suspects he dealt with.

"I appreciate your help," Sherlock lied, "but I need to find my friends. Our plane leaves this afternoon.

The two agents glanced at each other; he swallowed nervously, realizing that trying to flee made him look even more guilty.

"Actually, we were hoping you could stay in town to answer a few questions."

"Am I under investigation?" He asked, trying to sound as innocent and casual as possible.

"We know Abrams was in the area last night," Paul explained, "we were hoping that if we showed you some photos, you might be able to recognize and-"

"Sorry, but I don't remember anything about last night. There's a reason I was probably a good target for a robbery. I- uh- wasn't exactly in a great state of mind," he said, laughing uneasily. "Last night being my last night in Amsterdam and all."

Paul nodded.

"Right," he said. The agent stared at the ground for a moment, deciding on his next move. "Well, personally I think you should still see a doctor before you go. At least let us help you get out of the building."

Sherlock drew in a deep breath and winced at the effort; if breathing while at rest was this difficult, traveling might prove to be more of an obstacle than thought. He nodded in agreement.

"Alright," he said, "yeah, I'd be grateful for some help."

"Okay," Paul said. The agent got to his feet. "Here, on the count of three-"

When Paul helped him to his feet it was all he could do to not cry out in pain. His face contorted into a torturous pain; and he closed his eyes tightly, forcing the feeling away. Slowly the agents helped him walk out of the building, and it was only then that he remembered the three flights of stairs he originally took up to the room.

"Where are you from in America, Chris?" Paul asked.

"New York," Sherlock replied, without thinking.

It felt like hours before they made it down the first flight of stairs. His mind was racing as he tried to come up with a plan. As he hobbled down each step Sherlock recalled the fight that led to the kidnapping; and suddenly, he realized that he no longer had the weapon that was with him- and Abrams hadn't either. She had gained the upper hand just as they reached the top of the staircase, and he had dropped the gun just-

In the corner. Right where he was standing now. Sherlock didn't hesitate to act out a plan.

He let out a fake cry of pain and fell against the wall. Sliding down to the floor, he knew he was at the exact spot where-

"Looking for this?"

Sherlock looked up and froze when he saw Paul holding the gun.

"We found it on the way up," Paul said, "we've already gotten a fingerprint sample. We haven't sent it out yet, but there is no doubt in my mind that it would be a match. Security camera footage reveals that you and Abrams spoke-"

"Security footage?" He repeated, wondering why an abandoned building would have a security camera.

"From the store across the street," Paul explain. Sherlock felt too ill to respond. "Now I'm going to give you one chance to tell us the truth. Who are you? And where is Annabeth Abrams?"

Everything was silent as Sherlock looked from Agent Dobbs to Agent Wilson, both of whom had lost their looks of concern. Suddenly he noticed the pain was gone as adrenaline pumped through him. Just as Hannah made a move for her own gun he knew what he had to do.

He kicked out with his foot, knocking the gun out of Agent Dobbs' and to the floor. His hand grabbed Hannah's wrist just as she took out the gun. Her face contorted into pain as he pulled her arm forward, surely dislocating her shoulder as her gun fell to the floor. A fist suddenly came crashing into his face but he felt no pain. He quickly recovered, reaching to the floor for the gun before Dobbs could get to it first.

"Stop," Sherlock ordered, pointing the gun between the two of them.

The two agents froze, their expressions not changing though Dobbs put a protective hand in front of Agent Wilson. He ignored the obvious fear behind the anger in their eyes as he thought of his options. They hadn't sent the fingerprint sample out, which meant Paul must have the evidence in his bag. There was no way he could let the agents escape yet he was hesitant to give them any orders, not wanting to risk giving them the chance to get out of this.

He raised the gun a little more, pointing it directly at Paul.

He knew what he had to do.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Don't panic. I'm not that mean!


	19. Chapter 19

__**Author's Note:** I fixed a couple of stupid errors in the last chapter. Also, I have not forgotten about the flashback with Lestrade!

* * *

><p><em>April 2014 <em>

Mycroft closed his eyes when he saw his brother looking away, desperately avoiding eye contact. Irene appeared just as uncomfortable to be there.

"You left them for dead."

Of all the responses, he never would have expected Sherlock to laugh.

"I did _not_ leave them for dead," Sherlock shot.

"You shot two American federal agents and left them in an abandoned building in Amsterdam."

"Yes, they were _federal agents_!" Sherlock replied. "It's not my fault if they were not adaquently trained to deal with the situation! Not to mention they were American federal agents. I'm still surprised they even received jurisdiction-"

"Let's add this to the list of things you would know if you would _communicate_-"

"_Communicate_?" Sherlock exclaimed. "I wouldn't even be here telling this story if you had communicated with me from the beginning."

"Sherlock-" Irene began.

He held up a hand, silencing Irene's warning.

"Annabeth Abrams wasn't a car bomber," Sherlock said, his voice just above an angry whisper. "She was one of Moriarty's right hand men, and she…transferred to working for Moran after Moriarty's _death_. After I told her that Moran was disappointed in her she personally…she personally assassinated one of their own."

Mycroft didn't miss a beat when Irene glanced towards Sherlock and his brother's eyes narrowed, warning her once more to not interrupt. He was beginning to suspect that Sherlock had no intention of telling him the truth.

"Why Austria?" He finally asked.

* * *

><p><em>2013<em>

The rainstorm continued throughout the next day, making the city even more difficult to navigate. Sherlock fled the abandoned building, running for a few miles before choosing an alleyway to stop at and dispose of the evidence. He then leaned against the brick wall, finally able to take a moment to catch his breath and take in what was happening.

One mistake. One mistake had almost cost him everything he had worked towards for the past year and a half.

"Why did you lie to them?"

Sherlock froze as he felt a cool metal blade against his neck.

"You told them you were from New York, but obviously that's not true." He held his breath; he recognized the voice immediately- Annabeth Abrams. "Who are you, really?"

Her arm wrapped around his neck as she began to choke him. The struggle for air was making it harder for him to concentrate. When he didn't answer, her arm wrapped around his neck more tightly.

"Allow me to answer the question for you, then, _Sherlock Holmes_," Abrams spat. His eyes grew wide as he struggled for air, more desperate than ever to escape. The lack of oxygen didn't mix well with the pain that still shot through him from the injured rib. "Of course I know who you are. And now you're in trouble now, aren't you? What has happened to everyone who has recognized you in the past year? You killed them. One by one you've been killing off our men…and I would like to help you."

At last her grip loosened, but Sherlock remained frozen, stunned by her offer. Slowly he turned around, and as he faced her she gently lowered her weapon. A flash of sincerity appeared in her eyes, but he took the moment of hesitation to his advantage. He quickly pulled out his gun, but she had one in his face as well.

"Why do you think I'm Sherlock Holmes?" He asked.

Abrams laughed.

"Everyone in our circle knows who you are, Mr. Holmes," she replied. "I admit I did not recognize you at first, but once I saw the agents were interested in you I knew who you must be."

"You stuck around after attacking me," Sherlock breathed, his fingers wrapping tightly around the gun.

"Did you really think that I was just going to let you go after trying to kill me?" Abrams laughed. "No. I knew you must be Sherlock Holmes and that you finally found me; and now here I am, asking to join you."

_"Join me?"_

"You believe I work for Sebastian Moran. You are wrong. I worked for Jim Moriarty and _only_ Moriarty. After Moriarty was killed-"

His own laughter echoed madly against the rain. He was shivering once again from the cold, but he hardly noticed.

"You think Moriarty was killed?" He shot. "Is that what you were told?" Abrams' eyes narrowed as she tightened her grip around her own gun. "Moriarty shot himself, on a rooftop in London. He was a coward."

"Shut up-"

"He shot himself in the head," Sherlock said, noticeably shaking as the memory played in his mind. He shuddered as the echo of the gunshot rang in his head.

"You're lying," Abrams said, "Moran said-"

"Did he say that I killed him?"

"No!" Abrams exclaimed. Her exterior shattered as she finally broke down, gradually becoming more vulnerable. "He tried to convince me that Moriarty betrayed me. But he was wrong."

Sherlock stopped.

"Moran and Moriarty weren't working together?" He whispered slowly.

"They were," Abrams replied, "until the very end. Why do you think Moriarty killed himself? Because he got bored? Because you beat him? He was a human being-" Sherlock laughed, but she ignored him as she continued: "it was more than that."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"I can't say why-"

"Of course you can't."

"This is bigger than you know-"

"So I keep being told."

"I'm not on Moran's side," Abrams snapped, "I'm on nobody's side. This is a war, Mr. Holmes, and you got yourself caught in the middle of it."

"I didn't ask for this!" Sherlock exclaimed. "Do you think I wanted to be targeted by a psychopath? You're right. All those people who recognized me are dead, but not because of me- because of all the things they did in the past. This is _my _mission because _I_ was the one picked to play Moriarty's game. I don't want or need any help from any other psychopaths who ever aligned themselves with Moran or Moriarty."

"It was never Moriarty's game."

"Give me one reason why I shouldn't shoot you right now," Sherlock announced, raising his gun a little higher. "How do I know that you're telling the truth? You're here in Amsterdam for a reason, and we both know what that reason is. Sorry, but you don't seem too innocent to me."

Abrams' eyes narrowed once more, connecting with his.

"Why do you think I'm here, chasing after you?" She whispered. "Why don't you think I killed you when I had the chance last night, or when I found you in this alley? If I wanted you dead, Mr. Holmes, you would be dead. Your mission is to take down Moran's henchmen. My mission is to get revenge for Moriarty's death-"

"Moriarty killed himself!"

"We don't have to have the same motives, but there will be the same outcome," Abrams continued. "I have information that is crucial to your operation."

"I can't trust you."

"Good," Abrams replied. "You shouldn't be trusting anyone. Even your own brother."

He took a step back, his eyes widening in surprise. Abrams grinned but never explained.

"I've already put together a team," Abrams explained. "Lines have been drawn, Mr. Holmes. A lot of people don't know who to trust anymore. Moran is getting angry because he is losing followers, but the ones he has left are getting stronger."

As he considered her story, he realized that he had to admit she was beginning to make sense. He never understood why Moriarty would kill himself. He was too proud, too bold, for that. The memory played once again in his mind, and once again he was on that rooftop…

"You are not the only one with a reason to go after Moran," Abrams said. "Help me help you. After my task fails tonight Moran will know I'm no longer aligned with him. I have a safe house in Austria, and from there those of us who have managed to escape Moran will begin our plans on taking him down. If you join us, our chances are even greater. No one has to know who you are- you can go undercover. I want you on our side, Sherlock Holmes. Joining us will offer you protection."

"I don't need protection."

"You do," Abrams replied quietly, "you have no idea how much you do. You have no idea what Moran will do when he finds you."

Sherlock paused, his mind spinning with possibilities. He was alone in an unfamiliar country, with little information to guide him to his next plan of action and no resources to help him get there. He knew that even pretending to join forces with Abrams might prove to be beneficial. He had no intention of helping her, but using her information could without a doubt speed up this operation.

And what better way to take down Moran's henchmen than to be right in the eye of the storm?

At last, Sherlock lowered his weapon, and Abrams followed.

"How do we get out of the country?" He asked.

"We don't," Abrams said, "not yet, there's too much risk for me. We hide for a few days- a couple of weeks, maybe. You will need a cover story. We will need to plan this very carefully. All of us may be united in wanting to take down Moran, but trust me when I say that all of us are not on your side. The moment any of them hear the name Sherlock Holmes…frankly, you would be dead."

Sherlock laughed. Suddenly he was aware again of how sore and exhausted he was. And suddenly- all the risks he was about to take became more real.

He knew if Mycroft knew what he was about to do he would personally kill him.

"You're asking me to join a group of criminals who essentially want to kill me in taking down one of the most dangerous men on the planet?"

Abrams nodded.

"Yes," she said, and admitted: "I don't expect you to trust me, Mr. Holmes, but if taking down Moran is your goal, then you will receive no better offer than this one."

Sherlock nodded and took a moment to look around and take in his surroundings. He knew next to nothing about Amsterdam; unless he had a reason to know information for a case the knowledge became lost in the corners of his mind. He hadn't intended to stay here for more than a day, and now he would be here for weeks with one of Mycroft's most wanted criminals. And though Abrams kept claiming he did not have to trust her he knew- and he knew she did as well- that in order for this to work he would have to fully have faith in her.

A small, wicked smile crossed her face as Abrams put her weapon away and held out her hand. As they shook hands and met eyes, Sherlock knew deep down that he would come to regret this decision.


	20. Chapter 20

_Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in his old clothes. After being checked into rehab he had been issued hospital gowns and scrubs- he assumed they did away with the tattered trousers and jumper he was wearing the night the police found him. Now after four weeks of hell he was finally returned these items, and he was surprised to find the clothing fit even more loosely than before. Somehow, he had lost even more weight._

_The past four weeks had been nothing but grueling. From the sickness, to the insomnia, to the whirlwind of emotions that had engulfed him as soon as the drugs left his system, he felt like his brain had been spinning out of control. _

_Being cut off from the outside world didn't help. Mycroft hadn't stopped by to visit once- and Sherlock couldn't blame him. Nor did he even want to see him. Just because Mycroft had the decency to care enough to make sure he was safe didn't mean Mycroft cared enough to check in on how he was doing. Nevertheless, when a nurse informed him that he finally had a visitor, Sherlock wasn't sure if he was ready to face his brother._

_He now waited in some sort of holding room towards the front of the facility. He wasn't sure why he was given civilian clothing or why it was taking so long for the sign-in process. After what felt like hours there was a knock on the door, and Sherlock's eyes followed as an arm appeared first and then a pair of dress shoes stepped into the room._

_Sherlock froze when he realized who he was looking at: the same detective who was there the night of the arrest._

_The detective looked just as uncomfortable to be there as Sherlock felt. He noted that the detective was still dressed in business attire, complete with a tie. He was trying to make an impression._

_He was trying to impress him, Sherlock realized._

"_D.I. Lestrade," the detective announced._

_Sherlock nodded. His voice sounded raspy as he replied:_

"_I remember."_

_Lestrade nodded as well as his eyes trailed around the room; he appeared to be having a hard time taking in where he was._

"_How are you holding up?" Lestrade asked._

_Not wanting to give too much information to who was essentially a stranger, Sherlock simply shrugged._

"_Fine."_

"_Really?" Lestrade said. "You look terrible."_

_Sherlock remained silent, unsure of what to say. Clearly Lestrade wasn't one to be easily fooled, and he didn't look like he took talking to a junkie (former junkie, he reminded himself) too lightly._

"_Four weeks," Lestrade continued, "I imagine the physical effects of the withdrawal are over, yes? Now's the fun part- do they have you in therapy yet?"_

_Sherlock just continued to stare at him, wide-eyed and utterly unsure of what he should be saying. Lestrade let out an uneasy laugh._

"_I deal with drug addicts every day, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade said, "not all of them get the opportunity to be placed into a facility as nice as this one. I know you're doing well, considering, but you've got a long way to go." He paused and stuffed in his hands into his pockets. "What do you say I get you out of here for a little while?"_

_At last the detective had something useful to say._

"_You can get me out of here?" Sherlock replied._

_Again, the detective laughed._

"_You're finishing your program," Lestrade said, "I'll see to it you do. But I thought you could use some fresh air. Some natural light. Maybe some real food."_

_Sherlock hesitated; he still couldn't decide if he trusted the detective enough to talk to him, let alone go out to lunch with him._

_Yet Lestrade was right- he was going mad in this place. Having a taste of freedom for even just an afternoon might be the motivation he needed to get through the rest of the program._

_That's how he found himself out on the road for the first time in a month, riding along Lestrade in his car. The detective attempted small talk, informing him of some rather dull facts about politics, celebrities and who was marrying who. Sherlock couldn't help but to notice a folder stuffed with papers hiding in the back seat, and he had a feeling there was an ulterior motive to this outing._

_Lestrade pulled over at a park that was no more than a few miles journey from the facility._

"_Sorry, but they wouldn't let me take you further than ten miles," Lestrade explained, upon seeing the disappointed look on his face. "You're lucky I got you out at all."_

_He wanted to point out that he never asked to go anywhere in the first place, but as he drew in his first breath of fresh air in weeks, Sherlock didn't have the heart to argue. _

"_All I could manage was some pizza, I'm afraid," Lestrade said, "it's a bit cold."_

_The detective ducked into the backseat and returned with a box of pizza-and underneath, the folder. Lestrade avoided his eyes, as he must have noticed Sherlock knew what was really going on._

"_I thought we could just sit outside for a while, go over some things."_

_Sherlock refused to move._

"_Am I being interrogated?"_

_The detective's eyes widened._

"_No!" He promised. "No, but I wanted to talk to you about something else. But first- let's eat."_

_They sat down at a nearby table in an empty park. The grass was overgrown, trash littered the picnic area, and graffiti was painted on the tables and trash cans, but it was a break from the rehab facility. _

_Sherlock had to admit that the first few minutes of being outside were difficult. This new exposure to sunlight made him nauseous, and he found himself unable to join Lestrade in eating. _

"_Fine, more for me," the detective commented, already starting on his second slice. "Listen, Mr. Holmes…Mr. Holmes!"_

_His eyes had wondered away, taking in every inch of the forestry around them. He had almost forgotten what it was, to be a part of the living. Even when he was on the streets Sherlock never really felt alive; he always felt as if he was drifting through some sort of limbo while the universe decided what to do with him. Although the homelessness was, admittedly, mainly his fault, Sherlock would sometimes find himself feeling trapped- stuck in a world that couldn't be his own._

_Upon the command Sherlock's eyes darted towards the detective, who was gazing at him with concern and sympathy._

"_I…I know these past few years haven't been easy," Lestrade began, "I know you've been in some pretty shitty situations and lived in some pretty shitty places. Your choices, well, that's none of my business. I'm not here to judge you. I'm not here to talk about the drugs, or what you've been through- I mean, if you want to we can-"_

"_I don't," Sherlock assured quickly._

"_Actually, I'm here to see if you can help me." At last the detective pulled out the folder. "There have been a string of armed robberies in London in the past couple of weeks. Recently, one involved an attempted murder. One of incidenst happened at 4 AM at an all-night pharmacy. There were no witnesses, but we have reason to believe the suspects are from the area. We've been canvassing the area, asking questions and seeing if anyone's noticed anything unusual. Security footage only picked up a faded shot of the suspects as they left the pharmacy."_

_Sherlock nodded, following along easily but still confused as to what this could be about._

"_What does this have to do with me?" He asked._

"_The pharmacy is located on Griffith Street."_

_Sherlock froze, his eyes darkening with horror. He knew exactly what pharmacy Lestrade was talking about. How many days had he stood across the street, playing his violin? How many nights had he slept in the underpass nearby? Hundreds of faces came flooding back to him as he recalled each of the people he saw. He would see the same people each day, memorizing their daily schedules._

_Memorizing how much each would give him and for which songs._

_Panic began to overwhelm him as he remembered one particular night, when he noticed two men running past him wearing black clothing. He had shaken his head and simply tried to go back to sleep, telling himself he shouldn't get involved._

"_I-" he began, feeling ill and helpless._

"_It's alright," Lestrade said quietly, "I'm not asking you to testify in court. I'm not asking you to do anything- except to look at some pictures. We now have narrowed it down to a few suspects, but because we haven't found anyone who saw their faces it has made our search more difficult. The security cameras only caught the suspects when they pulled their masks off- not their faces."_

"_I was there," Sherlock whispered. The detective's eyes illuminated with hope. "I know exactly what night you were talking about. These pages, they're photos, correct?"_

_Lestrade nodded and, without speaking, passed the folder over to Sherlock._

_His brain spun into action as he turned to the first photo. As he looked over each page he didn't see the correct men, but he swallowed as he realized he recognized many of the criminals. The "narrowed" search was down to ten men- a few of whom Sherlock recognized from many of his own circles with the people he stayed with- or from their enemies._

_At last his sights landed on a familiar set of eyes, and he brushed his finger across the photo. He examined the suspect's neck, noticing the imprint from what had once been a tattoo._

"_Him," Sherlock announced, voicing shaking. He turned to the next page, noticing the same type of imprint on this man. "And him. But they're not simple robbers- they're from a gang. They're former gang members. You can tell where they tried to get their tattoos removed. I bet you anything the cashier recognized them- this gang used to claim that area as their territory. If these men were over there I don't know what they could have been doing. It could have been a mistake, or they could have been meeting someone. Drug deals went on in that area as well-" his cheeks reddened a little as he noticed the detective's eyes narrowed at this comment, "this wasn't a simple robbery. How much money was taken?"_

_Lestrade froze._

"_Actually, none."_

"_None?" Sherlock repeated. "No money was taken and you didn't find that suspicious?"_

_Lestrade nodded and began to rub his neck, an obvious sign that he was embarrassed._

"_We just thought the guys got spooked," Lestrade said. "We were beginning to wonder if they were even a part of the same robberies, since the other cases involved stolen money. But this theory- this changes everything."_

"_Not a theory," Sherlock replied, "I know this is what happened. This is bigger than a string of robberies."_

_He truthfully had no evidence for this confidence, but somehow he knew it must be true. Lestrade reached for the file, and announced:_

"_That really helps. Thanks."_

_Sherlock placed his hands on the folder to stop him. Their eyes met, but Sherlock realized he didn't feel intimidated at all._

"_Don't you want to know about all these other men?"_

* * *

><p>Sherlock stayed close to Abrams as she unlocked of one of the many flats of the eighth floor downtown building. His eyes took in what few details he could make out of the building. He didn't know the city well, but it was obvious they weren't in the safest part of town. Only a single bulb dangled in the middle of the hallway. Rats scattered in the shadows; the stairs on the way up had creaked so badly it was a wonder they hadn't fallen through.<p>

"Are you sure we should still be in town?" Sherlock asked her.

Abrams shook her head in frustration she set forced the door to open even after using the key.

"No one will be looking for you here."

He remained silent as they stepped into the small flat. There was only one room, which was nearly as dark as the hallway. A twin-sized mattress sat in the corner, covered with blankets but no real bedclothes. The kitchen was tiny and didn't look suited for eating, let alone cooking. One whiff of air had him choking so much he had to use his arm to shield himself from the smell.

"Sorry it's not in the best condition," Abrams said; he felt more like she was mocking him than being sincere, "but it's safe."

She immediately headed towards a cupboard by the kitchen door. Taking out another key, she opened the cupboard and revealed stacks of papers. Abrams through them carelessly onto a table and then picked up some mens clothing from the floor and threw them towards him.

"You should wash up," she suggested, "change. You'll feel better."

Sherlock let out a hollow laugh.

"Since when do you care about how I feel?"

"I don't care what you do," she shot, "but I need to work."

He watched for a moment as she sorted out the documents and what looked like a set of maps. When she continued to ignore him he turned away, heading for the door he assumed led to the bathroom.

As he pushed open the door, something stopped him from going any further.

A foot.

The foul smell became stronger and stronger as he inched the door open, revealing an unconscious man on floor. Eyes growing wide, Sherlock could only stare at the body in shock for a moment before turning back to Abrams.

"There's a dead man in here."

Abrams didn't reply.

"Did you kill him?" He demanded.

Still no reply.

"Who was he?"

This time she looked up and her cold, gray, eyes met his.

"A traitor," she shot. Immediately she turned back to the documents. "Don't worry I'll deal with the body soon."

Sherlock nodded, wondering if this kind of scenario was going to become something he would need to get used to while working with her. He grabbed one of the towels hanging in the bathroom and draped it over the dead man. The victim looked to be in his 40s, and it looked like Abrams had taken her time in killing him. Stepping over the man's body, Sherlock turned on the light and stared into the mirror over the sink.

He hardly recognized himself. The stitches on his forehead were still in place, but he could still run his fingers over the bruising around the wound. It was only then that he noticed the tremor in his right hand. He immediately grabbed the hand with his left to stop the shaking and took a deep breath.

Though he shot the agents in the leg instead of killing them, and though he phoned to get them help afterwards, guilt still plagued him. He had been able to look two innocent people in the eye and injure them.

He drew in a deep, raspy, breath, determined to calm down, and turned on the sink faucet.

When he was done he stepped back into the main room, still wearing his own clothes. He hardly felt any better; of anything he felt more alert and aware of what he had gotten himself into. Abrams was sipping tea out of a chipped mug when he walked towards her.

"I made you some as well," she said, pointing to a second mug waiting for him on the table.

"How kind," he spat, "forgive me, but it's going to be awhile before I forgive you for tying me up, beating me, and leaving me for dead."

Abrams rolled her eyes.

"That was nothing," she said, "and I didn't leave you for dead. I had every intention of coming back for you."

He decided the argument was going to get him nowhere and instead turned his attention to the maps she was studying. They were street maps of a foreign city; he searched his mind to try to recall seeing the maps before, but the search turned up empty.

"Where is that?"

She looked up at him, astonished.

"Austria!" She exclaimed. "Austria, we were speaking about Austria. How do you not know what a street map of Austria looks like?"

Sherlock shrugged.

"I've never been?" He offered.

She glared at him.

"You need to start learning," she said, "if you're going to fool these men then you will need an elaborate back story. You will need to know the city, inside and out. They may turn to you for advice, they may expect you to lead. You will need to know the language, the culture, the government."

"Right…" just glancing at the road map told him this was going to take far more work than he had imagined. "How long do we have?"

"Three weeks."

"Three weeks?"

"Yes."

"Three weeks to speak fluent German and learn everything about the culture, government, and layout of Austria?" He asked.

"Yes."

He simply gaped at her.

"Did you not have to learn languages in university?" She asked him.

"I never finished school," he admitted.

She rolled her eyes.

"Typical."

"You went to university, then?" He asked.

"I was at the top of my class," she stated proudly.

"Where did things go wrong?"

He regretted the question as soon as she turned to him, her eyes warning him to not go there. He was not surprised when she refused to answer. She looked away again, but he held a hand out, grabbing her arm to stop her. This was his next regret. She glared at him again, and he felt as though minute by minute he was losing her trust.

"_Never_ touch me," she warned.

"Sorry," he said, withdrawing his hands quickly. "Sorry, but I'm going to have to know what's going on. If I'm going to go through with this, I need to know who you are working with. I need to know why you are after Moran. And I need to know why it is so important for whoever it is you are working with to not know who I really am."

Abrams dropped her ink pen and placed her palms on the table. She closed her eyes briefly, as though mustering the strength to not release her frustration by hitting him.

"Fine," she shot, "I will tell you what I know. I assume you know why Moran is after you."

Sherlock fell into a seat across from her, and replied quietly:

"Not entirely, no."

Her eyes narrowed with interest.

"You at least know his history with your brother?"

"Mycroft?" Sherlock exclaimed before he could stop himself.

"Yes," Abrams replied, "your brother is even more famous than you are. I will tell you what I know, but it is not much. I know that your brother was recruited to work for the British government at a young age, just out of university. I know he gained respect quickly, and he was recruited for MI-5-"

"_MI-5?"_

She glanced towards him in surprise.

"Do you know anything about your brother, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock paused. Although he liked to brag about Mycroft's power-and occasionally tease him about it- he was always left to accept that he knew very little about what his brother actually did. After university his brother disappeared off and on for various lengths of time; by the time he returned home for good, Sherlock had long since run away. He knew a fair amount about Mycroft's current position with the government, but he had very few conversations with his brother about his history with the government.

"As I said, he was recruited to MI-5," she said, "and after just a few years working for the government his status was upgraded. He was sent on missions outside the country, working deep undercover."

Sherlock couldn't help but to laugh. None of this seemed to fit Mycroft. As secretive as his brother was, it was hard to picture him actually working with people and working on these elaborate cases abroad…_undercover_.

"Are you honestly trying to tell me-"

"Yes, Mr. Holmes. Your brother was a spy."

* * *

><p>Author's Note: Well, there you have it. We finally get back to the flashbacks with Lestrade, and you get a little insight into Mycroft's past. This might be something that isn't too surprising about him, considering his work with the government, but I just thought this would be a fun way to end the chapter!<p> 


	21. Chapter 21

Author's Note: This chapter is short but very important. You learn more of the story, but there are many layers to this story. I know this fic is a lot of dialogue right now, but all of this is very important. Some exciting action stuff will begin again soon!

* * *

><p>Abrams continued working as he sat in silence, acting as though there were nothing surprising about what she said. Sherlock could only stare at her, stunned.<p>

"His first mission abroad was in Italy," Abrams began when he continued to say nothing. "He was working counter-terrorism. On his second day in Florence there was an attempt on his life: someone struck the vehicle he was riding in head on. The driver and passenger were killed instantly, but your brother was taken from the scene."

This sounded too familiar. His eyes grew wide as he realized what story he was hearing. Realized that his brother lied to him. Realized that this was so much worse than he thought-

"Taken?" He asked quietly.

Sherlock wasn't sure what to expect when Abrams glanced up at him, her eyes dark and somber.

"He was held hostage for a week," she explained. "He was able to escape after seven days. I don't know what happened to him during that time, but everyone says that's when he changed. When your brother returned to London, he was a different man."

"The Ice Man."

The words echoed coldly off the tip of his tongue as he recalled Moriarty's nickname for his brother. At the time he took the comment as a joke, but he never considered the truth behind it. Looking back through his life he had always been able to recall the exact time when both he and his brother completely changed personalities. He had always connected it to, well, the drugs and running away from home.

He never considered that something else might have triggered this change in Mycroft.

Sherlock had always noticed a significant change in his brother's attitude- like a switch had flipped and something changed within him once he left home and started working for the government.

Whatever happened must have been so traumatic that Mycroft had even covered up that lie with another one. To think of his brother going through that and never telling anyone was an impossible thing to wrap his mind around.

"What was that?" Abrams smirked.

"Moriarty's nickname for my brother," he answered.

"Fitting."

"Better than his nickname for me."

"What was that?"

He could feel his cheeks turning slightly red in embarrassment as he replied:

"That's a story for another night."

Abrams shook her head as the smile faded away; it was the most human emotion he had seen from her yet.

"As I said, your brother was a changed man," she continued, her tone more sympathetic now. "He ensured the men who were responsible paid for their actions."

"Who were they?" He asked.

"They were like a terrorist cell," Abrams explained, "but not that extreme. Yet. They thought your brother was in Italy to go after them, but it turns out that was just a misunderstanding. That didn't stop them from being angry- from realizing what power they had with having a British government official on their hands. Your brother was lucky he got out when he did."

Sherlock closed his eyes, desperately trying not to picture what she meant. He felt ill, and for once he was not sure how much more of the story he could stand to hear.

Yet he knew he had to listen.

"Mr. Holmes, when your brother returned to London he ordered for all of the men responsible to be captured, dead or alive. None of the eight men turned up alive- but all of their bodies were found. All but two."

He had a terrible feeling about where this was going.

"One of those men was Sebastian Moran."

Anxiety overwhelmed him as everything began to make sense. He could hear his heart pounding and he considered, as she studied him, that she could hear it too.

"Moran escaped when they tried to get him too," she continued. "I should explain, this- cell- they weren't focused on terrorizing the public. They had very specific plots in place, many dealing with government officials. They realized that by putting certain plans into motion they could affect the outcome of events. A few members of this cell had already been carrying out these schemes for years, but they had a few new recruits- Moran included. He was only about your brother's age at the time."

"How can someone that young get mixed into something like this?"

"Out of the army."

His eyes shot up towards her; he didn't realized he had spoken out loud. Right out of the army. This story was beginning to sound too familiar. Right out of the army- just like John.

Not that John would ever get mixed up in anything like this.

"He wasn't a very dedicated soldier, if it makes you feel any better," Abrams said, noticing his discomfort. "Moran was someone who was very lost, very unsure of who they were. Someone who was very easily manipulated by people like these men. It's no excuse, and he will never admit why he had turned out this way. But to continue the story…your brother's history with Moran has been more of a cat-and-mouse chase than anything."

"What about the other man? You said two bodies weren't found. Was it…"

"No, it wasn't Moriarty," Abrams said, rolling her eyes. "He didn't meet Moran until much later. No, the other man was caught by your brother himself in England."

"This man actually went into the same country where Mycroft was?"

"Of course. He was still trying to fulfill the cell's latest mission: kill Mycroft Holmes."

She paused, offering him a moment to absorb everything.

His mind was reeling from shock. As much as he tried to push the emotions away they threatened to overwhelm him.

First: anger towards his brother for never telling him any of this. Anger towards his brother because he lied about what happened to his fiancé (because it _couldn't_ be a coincidence that there were two such deadly wrecks in his brother's life). Guilt for never taking his brother more seriously when he was younger. Guilt, for never considering that there must be a reason behind the cold, dark, shadow that was his brother. Sympathy for realizing the pain his brother must have gone through- both physically and emotionally.

"He failed miserably," Abrams continued. "Your brother caught him and put him in solitary confinement."

"For how long?"

"Two years."

Once again his eyes grew wide.

"What happened after two years?" He asked cautiously.

"Your brother made his first deal with Moran."


	22. Chapter 22

Author's Note: This is another short update, but I wanted to post something. I'm in the process of moving so I've been incredibly busy, and I haven't always been able to get on the computer or internet. I'm really sorry about the lack of updates lately! Here is a hint as to what is going on. This chapter is set in the "present", so if you're confused about anyone's motives or emotion, consider that this happens after everything else. This story will eventually be told in a linear fashion again, but I thought this would be an interesting way to keep such a long story well, interesting.

* * *

><p>Sherlock drew in a deep breath as he diverted his eyes to the floor. He looked as though he were wishing he could drift away. Mycroft held his arms close to his chest and closed his eyes as he quickly considered how he should handle this. He had a feeling that Sherlock knew even more than what he was saying but felt that he should be the one to admit it.<p>

"There's food in the car," Irene Adler announced, her voice hardly a whisper against the stiff silence, "I'll go."

She disappeared into the dark night, leaving the two brothers standing silent.

"Follow me," Mycroft said, at last.

Sherlock obeyed without question. Mycroft led him through the front corridor and into the back part of the cottage, all the way to the back corner where a single doorway stood in the dim moonlight. His brother didn't say anything, though Mycroft knew he knew full well where they were: Sherlock's childhood room.

He was able to easily push the door open, revealing a dusty mirage of his brother's childhood. A small bed still sat in the corner by the window. A simple wooden desk was pushed against the wall; on it were stacks of paperback books and encyclopedias. But his interest was not in the collection of memorabilia. Instead he led Sherlock to the corner of the room and lifted open the window.

He carefully tested the ladder that was still resting against the side of the cottage before lowering himself out the window. Looking back, he watched as Sherlock hesitated, examining the distance between the ladder and the ground.

_Uncertainty_- a rare look to be found in his brother's eyes. Surely the result of his leap off of St. Bart's.

After another deep sigh Sherlock reluctantly followed Mycroft. As he climbed up onto the roof he reached down and offered a hand to Sherlock and pulled him safely onto the roof. He sat down without explanation and drew his knees to his chest, his eyes already wondering towards the sparkling night sky.

Sherlock simply stared at his trainers.

"I remember when you used to disappear up here for hours," Mycroft began. He swallowed, struggling to find his voice as the cool night air whipped around them. "Mother used to get so worried-"

"No she didn't."

Their eyes connected, with Sherlock daring him to argue.

"You used to say that to make me feel guilty, but I knew you were the only one who was ever worried."

With that Sherlock looked away, still and quiet, as though he had never said a word.

"Right. Sherlock…"

"I know why you couldn't tell me," Sherlock interrupted. "That's fine, Mycroft, I really don't care."

But he did. He could tell.

Mycroft studied his brother, watching as he pulled the worn black hoodie over his hands to protect himself against the cool wind.

"Surely you couldn't have been too surprised-"

"I wasn't," Sherlock admitted, "I was only surprised that you lied to me. About your…_fiance_."

He spat out the word as though it were something he refused to believe.

The accusation knocked the wind out of him as his mind reeled, setting him back over fifteen years. Each time he thought of the accident he could still hear Elizabeth screaming. The tires screeched in his ears and glass exploded around him. He could still feel the blow to the head that sent him spiraling into unconsciousness, only to wake up-

"I'm tired of the secrets." The quiet, desperate plea sounded foreign coming from his brother. Their eyes met again, and Mycroft was almost surprised to see how serious he was. "I jumped off a building to save the only people I might be able to call _friends_. The least you could do is tell me the truth."

"How much did Abrams tell you?" He asked.

"Not enough."

Sherlock glared at him, but Mycroft wasn't ready to give up that easily.

"What happened to her?" He inquired.

"She's dead. She was shot right in front of me."

He felt his heart skip a beat as his brother's eyes grew colder, warning him to not question him. At this point he didn't want to imagine what Sherlock had been through. All of the signs of trauma were there, but he knew his brother wasn't the typical victim. There were layers to this matter, layers that probably went so deeply he was almost afraid to know the explanations.

"I answered your questions, now you answer mine," Sherlock shot.

Mycroft hesitated, unwilling to submit to this kind of behavior from his brother. But he knew he had no choice.

"I'm sure she told you about the accident," Mycroft said, "it is true. I was a spy, and my first mission abroad was in Italy. Elizabeth was my partner. Very few people knew what was really going on between us, but our enemies could always sense it. I couldn't help but to be protective of her, and I had to remind myself how to act around her when we were on missions. That operation went terribly wrong, and a group incorrectly thought we were after them."

"She told me," Sherlock said, "she told me all about who they were."

Their eyes connected once more, and an understanding passed between them. He knew about Moran, then, Mycroft realized.

"But she couldn't tell me what happened after the accident," Sherlock said.

Mycroft stared at his hands. He had always held the story so close to him that he wasn't even sure how to find the right words; how they would sound. All these years he had been so afraid of being judged, so terrified of people finding out who he really was. And now, here was his own brother, and he could hardly find the words to say.

"The accident happened much like the fake story I told you," Mycroft admitted, "after the vehicle flipped a couple of times I hit my head and fell unconscious. When I woke, I found myself in a basement. I was gagged and tied to a chair. It must have been hours before someone finally presented themselves. They asked me who I worked for and wanted to know what I knew- which of course was nothing. I was held there for days before I was able to escape."

He stole a quick glance to his brother, curious to see his reaction, but Sherlock refused to look his way.

"What did they do to you?" Sherlock asked quietly.

As Mycroft studied him and considered what trauma Sherlock must have recently gone through, he began to wonder if this was not a questioning of his past, but an attempt to find a common ground. Sherlock was never one to ask to talk, but this was his way of reaching out. This was his way of finding someone who would understand.

"They tortured me."

Silence followed. Sherlock looked ill, and even Mycroft felt sick to his stomach at the memory. He pushed away the flashbacks that threatened to overwhelm him, focusing instead on what his brother was really looking for.

"What happened in Austria?" Mycroft asked, gently.

No response.

"Why was Abrams shot?"

Sherlock flinched ever-so-slightly at the criminal's name but did not reply.

"Why are you here?" Silence. "You can't be in London, Sherlock."

"You've been making deals with Moran," Sherlock said suddenly, his eyes flashing towards him.

Mycroft nodded.

"For your protection, yes," he admitted.

"Why?" Sherlock demanded. "Why does that matter?"

"Because you're my brother."

"You sold my story to Jim Moriarty," Sherlock shot. Mycroft looked away, feeling more ill than ever. "You made deals with Sebastian Moran. You knew who he was before I knew him, but it was no accident that we met, was it?"

His face burned in embarrassment, but he did not reply. He was too ashamed. He would never be able to forgive himself for what happened between his brother and Sebastian Moran. For any of this.

"He has been trying to ruin me for years," Sherlock said, obviously having to fight to keep his voice level, "I think it's time I know why. _Why_, Mycroft?"

The demanding, cold, tone was so unlike his brother that a shiver went down his spine. Sure his brother had been angry with him before. They had had one too many fights. But this desperation was new. He could sense an obvious change in his brother; one he wasn't sure was good.

Yet Mycroft managed to keep calm.

"Why are you in London?" Mycroft challenged. "What did you and Abrams do in Austria?" There was no answer but a fiery, piercing, glare. "These people- why were they so dangerous that you needed to die _again_ to escape? Yes, I've lied to you, Sherlock, but I never meant for you to disappear for a _year_. I've had no idea where you were, if you were even alive. Yes, I've lied to you, but I deserve the truth just as much as you do."

At that moment his mobile went off. Sherlock's eyes never left his as he announced:

"You better get that."

Without reply, Mycroft reached into his pocket and answered the call.

A simple three word statement was the response on the other end. Mycroft froze, mobile still in hand even as the other end went dead. Sherlock nodded slowly, and Mycroft realized he _knew_ this would happen.

And the thought that his brother was involved in_ this_ was terrifying.

"Sherlock, please tell me you aren't involved in this."

"We should go," Sherlock stated, ignoring him.

Mycroft grabbed his wrist, noting how Sherlock tensed as his hand touched his arm.

"Sherlock-"

He noticed the coldness was gone from his brother's eyes, replaced with a pleading desperation.

"We've been lying to each other for a long time," Sherlock said quietly, "but I think it's time we start to work together again."

"Please tell me you're not involved in this," Mycroft begged.

For once, Sherlock looked like he wanted nothing more than to be able to agree with him.

"I need your help, Mye."

The use of his old nickname struck him, and he nodded, signaling he understood how serious this must be.

"I can only help you so much," Mycroft warned.

A sad smile swept across Sherlock's face.

"We both know that's not true."


	23. Chapter 23

Two weeks later he was on a train to Austria. Abrams sat across from him, going over the same notes she had gone over for the past two weeks. Despite sharing a small flat with the criminal for over fourteen days he could not get used to being around her. She still refused to tell him anymore of what she knew about his brother- instead she became obsessed with preparing him for what was to come in Austria.

Sherlock now knew enough conversational German to get by in the city. His new identity was Lukas Hartmann- a former most wanted German thief whom Abrams killed months ago. While rumors of his disappearance had spread rapidly, she claimed there would be no reason for anyone to suspect murder- nor was there any way for a body to be found. Sherlock chose to not ask for any details.

Through the moonlight's reflection in the glass he now studied his new red hair, which barely fell passed his ears. A new pair of fake, wire-rimmed eyeglasses that did not fit his face kept sliding down his nose.

"Stop fidgeting," Abrams hissed, "you look fine."

A sigh escaped him as he gazed out the window once more, unconvinced.

He looked, he realized, like his brother did when he was younger.

"I must warn you that these men will be more on edge than ever," Abrams said, "they lost one of their own last night." She paused and glanced up at him over her notes. "Your brother was in charge of the mission."

This caught his attention. Throughout the past couple of weeks he noted many stabs at his brother- she was clearly not a fan- but she would never explain why.

"I have nothing to do with my brother's actions, nor do I ever approve of them."

The comment earned him a smirk from Abrams, who began to put her notes away in a tattered bag.

"We're nearly there," she said, "are you sure you are ready for this?"

_No._

He wasn't ready to spend the next few months of his life in Austria. He wasn't ready to work undercover with some of the greatest criminals in the world. He wasn't ready to completely put his trust in Abrams. And he hated the fact he would be doing all of this while looking more like his brother than ever.

But he knew he had no choice.

With his eyes glued to his reflection, Sherlock replied:

"Yes."

* * *

><p>After arriving in Austria around midnight it was a thirty minute walk through the streets of downtown Vienna before Abrams found what she was looking for. To him, the building looked like it may have once been a hotel, some seventy years ago. The windows were boarded up, rats scurried away as they carefully ascended the former emergency exit in the back.<p>

"This is your vantage point?" He couldn't help but to ask.

"Did you expect a mansion?" Abrams smirked.

Sherlock looked around the exterior of the building one last time.

"I stayed in better places when I was homeless."

Abrams rolled his eyes and ignored him as they stepped through the back entryway. His stomach was already churning with uncertainty as she led him down the long, narrow, hallway. She used a torch, as there seemed to be no electricity.

"This is just temporary," she assured him, "a gathering of some of the top criminals in the world…we don't want to put ourselves in the spotlight."

"Right," Sherlock shot, "because murdering people makes you blend in so much better."

Suddenly he found himself being thrown against the wall by Abrams. The wall trembled as he fell against it, and while he still wasn't intimidated it was one of the times he was reminded that she too was a wanted criminal.

"I'm going to tell you this and only you," she hissed, "I'm not proud of what I've done. There's a reason why each of us are here- why we're going after Moran. For some it's about vengeance, but for others…forgiveness is hard to find, in our world. Sometimes we have find it on our own.

Sherlock stared at her, mouth agape.

"_Touching_," he remarked, "considering you're talking about murder."

She studied him for a long moment before finally letting him go.

"And what about you, _Mr. Hartmann_?" She asked. "How have you lived with yourself, these past two years?" As their eyes met, Sherlock suddenly understood everything she said. "Exactly."

At last she relaxed and continued to lead him through the abandoned hotel. They traveled up a stairway, trekking up four flights before she led him down yet another long, narrow hallway. She stopped halfway through before she paused and leaned against the doorway, listening carefully. Then she reached up and grasped the doorknob.

"You will be staying in here."

The door screeched as she forced it open, revealing a small single-bed room. He tested the mattress with his hand and wasn't surprised to find it was as hard as a rock and covered in dust. Thick curtains blocked his view out the back window. Judging by the yellow stains on them they hadn't been opened in a long time.

"I will be in the room next door," Abrams explained, "and when the rest of the crew gets here, they'll be on this floor as well."

Sherlock nodded, choosing to remain silent. Suddenly the thought of bunking with a group of some of the world's most-wanted criminals didn't sound as appealing as it did at first. Swallowing, he pushed aside his nerves, reminding himself why he was here. Not only could this be his best chance of actually finding Moran and eliminating his ring; many of these men were on Mycroft's most wanted list. His brother would have a field day if he were able to bring in this many suspects by the end of this mission.

She placed a folder in front of him. Sherlock studied her before opening the folder, revealing a picture of a middle-aged, bald, white man, who was obviously walking through the streets of St. Petersburg, Russia.

"Your first assignment," Abrams explained.

Sherlock's eyes widened as he suddenly realized what she meant by _thief_. He knew she was watching him; and he knew she would have realized he hadn't fully understood her. Quickly, he regained composure and took a few deep breaths as his mind raced, trying to decide what he should do.

"He's the brother of a Russian ambassador," she continued.

"And what does your group want with this ambassador?"

Her eyes narrowed, and he realized she didn't approve of him asking questions.

"Lukas Hartmann," Sherlock began, "was he a kidnapper?"

"He was wanted for more than a dozen international kidnapping incidents," Abrams admitted, "I felt no remorse in taking him down, but having his identity will be useful. But this is beside the point. If you really wish to impress the group, have this man detained before they arrive tomorrow night."

"Tomorrow night?"

She placed another piece of paper in front of him. The stationery held the letterhead of a high-class Austrian hotel and the times of what looked to be some kind of business conference.

"The ambassador will be speaking at this conference at 13:00 tomorrow. He brought his brother along as his guest, as a gift for his birthday. His brother has never been to Austria so he has arranged for him to go on a site-seeing tour an hour after the seminar ends, at 15:00. You, Mr. Holmes, are the tour guide."

"But instead of seeing Schönbrunn Palace he will be drugged and gagged."

A small grin peered out of the corners of her lips.

"Precisely."

"Why the Russian ambassador?" Sherlock asked once more.

"Moran was last spotted in St. Petersburg," Abrams admitted, "he was nearly detained there, but _somehow_, he escaped."

"An inside job?" Sherlock asked.

Abrams nodded.

"This story goes far more deeper than you could ever imagine, Mr. Holmes."

With that Abrams fell silent and glanced at her watch.

"Try and get some rest," she instructed. She reached into her pocket and pulled out some currency. "Tomorrow morning, buy a suit. A nice one. You will need it for more than one occasion."

Sherlock hesitated before taking the money and placing it safely in his trouser pockets. He knew it was nearing one in the morning, and the events of the recent days were beginning to take its toll. He also knew that he would have no choice but to follow along with this bizarre plan, and he would need full control of his mind to concentrate and work his way through these next few weeks.

"I created a fake tour company for the ambassador's people," Abrams said. "His brother will not question it when it is you who greets him tomorrow. "

Nodding, he no longer had the energy to argue with her. He would have to play the part- and play it well- and hope that somehow, it would all be worth it in the end. Abrams must have sense his uncertainty, and her eyes were sympathetic as she announced:

"We all have the same goal. We want to end Moran's web. We've all done things we aren't proud of, and we have all been through horrible experiences within the criminal world. These people, there is a lot more to them than meets the eye. Please understand this. With that said, we are all putting our lives on the line. With one error any one of us could be in prison, dead, or worse. Get some rest, Mr. Holmes. Tomorrow will be a major test for you, and there is no room for mistakes."


	24. Chapter 24

_He was out of breath by the time he reached the door and had to take a minute to calm down. It was moments like these when the withdrawals hit him worst, when he was reminded that he was not only mentally frustrated but had changed physically. Sherlock thought the worst was over in rehab; he thought the withdrawals were over. Now that he was back in civilization, living amongst other people and being required to do useless things like _chores_, he would find himself hit with the reality that life was different now. And he wasn't always sure he had the strength to get through this._

_Sherlock opened the front door and froze, surprised at who was on the front step._

"_Hi," D.I. Lestrade greeted. His hand immediately flew to his neck- a nervous tick- and a sheepish grin crossed his face. Sherlock hadn't seen the detective since identifying one of the robbers nearly a month ago. Since then life seemed to go by in a whirlwind of enforced therapy and discharge papers. He had almost forgotten about working with the detective all together. "I thought you'd like to know both of the robbers were found guilty. Your statement helped our case tremendously."_

_He paused, and Sherlock assumed the detective was going to say something else. When he didn't, Sherlock replied:_

"_Great."_

_He made to shut the door, but the detective's hand appeared between the door and the doorframe, forcing the door back open._

"_I just wanted to say thanks," Lestrade said. "I know it took a lot to do what you did."_

_Sherlock just stared at him._

"_I pointed at a picture on a piece of paper."_

"_It was pretty amazing what you did," Lestrade admitted, "your memory is…brilliant. Your attention to detail is unlike any I've seen before. I could use someone like you on my team."_

"_You could use a former junkie on your team?"_

_The detective's cheeks turned a light shade of red, and he stuffed his hands deep into his pockets. Sherlock smirked as he realized he was making him nervous._

"_Sorry, not interested," Sherlock said._

_He attempted to close the door again, only for Lestrade to stop him once more. _

"_That's not why I came here," Lestrade said. "How about we take a walk?"_

_Sherlock stared at him and then glanced down, pointing out the fact that he hadn't bothered to change out of his night clothes that afternoon- actually, that week. _

"_No thanks."_

_Just as he was about to turn around Lestrade exclaimed:_

"_I could use your help!" This caught his attention. When he looked up, the detective was staring at him with pleading eyes. "I'm desperate. It's a serial killer. Two men have died already."_

_Sherlock recalled flipping around the television channels the night before and seeing a case about a killer. Another body had been found with the same motive, in the same area of town. He even recalled there being a press conference- and it had possibly been Lestrade speaking, but he hadn't bothered to put much thought into it._

"_I saw it on the news," he admitted quietly._

_Lestrade glanced around, paranoid enough to believe someone would be wondering the grounds of the estate and listening in on the conversation._

"_We've received a threat about a third victim," Lestrade admitted. "We've run out of suspects. My team's exhausted, they've been working around the clock for three days, and we all have this third unknown victim hanging over our heads. I can't let another person-" he actually looked like he might be ill, "I can't let someone else suffer like that. You were brilliant on the robbery case. What would you think about lending a hand on this one?"_

_He didn't know rather he should be jumping up in down in excitement over the opportunity or slamming the door in the detective's face for good. Sherlock could only imagine his brother's reaction to him working on a serial killer case. The thought was enough to make him smile._

"_Now you seem a little too excited," Lestrade noted._

"_You're right," Sherlock replied. "Fresh air can work wonders for the mind, can't it?"_

_Lestrade shrugged._

"_Who are you staying with?" He asked._

_Sherlock noticed well into the conversation that the detective was eyeing the grounds of the estate with interest, clearly impressed._

"_Mycroft," he said. _

"_I bet that's been loads of fun," Lestrade replied._

_Sherlock grimaced._

"_As punishment for my running away from home, living on the streets, and becoming addicted to drugs he let his cleaning staff go and has had me clean every inch of this godforsaken place. He hasn't let me outside since I've been back. He's forcing me to talk to some_ idiot_ therapist, all while never noticing that I've been taking the last of his cigarettes each day."_

_He grinned at the last bit, but the detective eyed him with concern. _

"_Is that a good idea, considering the whole rehab bit?"_

"_Judging by your fingernails, your coat pocket, and your left shoe you're not much of a saint either."_

_Lestrade laughed._

"_I suppose you're right about that. Do you need your brother's permission to leave, then?"_

_It was Sherlock's turn to laugh._

"_Ask Mycroft's permission?" He snorted. "Let him worry. It makes him feel important."_

* * *

><p>Seven years later Sherlock sat beside Mycroft as Irene drove them towards their destination. Mycroft looked extremely uncomfortable; he had never been a fan of being left in the dark. He was texting away on his mobile- to his assistant, Sherlock noticed.<p>

"Who let her go on holiday?" Mycroft muttered to himself.

Sherlock grinned; he had hacked into Mycroft's e-mail and sent his PA a message to get her out of the way while this mission was active. He needed Mycroft as disconnected from his staff as possible if he was going to get away with this.

At last Mycroft sighed and threw his mobile down on the seat between them.

"Sherlock, would it be too much to ask what is going on?"

"Yes."

"Do I even want to know how you got yourself involved in this?"

"No."

"Will you please just _look at me?_"

Sherlock's eyes shot towards his brother, meeting his with an icy glare.

"Yes, brother dear?" Sherlock said through gritted teeth.

He knew he wasn't the only one that noticed the tremor in his hand was back. His leg was shaking as well, reminding him of the job he had to do.

"Do you remember your first case with Lestrade?" Mycroft asked.

"The robbery?"

That seemed like an eternity ago. A different life.

"No, the serial killer."

Sherlock closed his eyes as the memory came back to him in a flash. All those horrible crime scenes. The _blood_. It was the fact that he made it through that case that always gave him the confidence that he could make it through any other, no matter how difficult.

"Of course," Sherlock replied quietly.

"Do you remember how scared you were?"

His brother's voice was just above a whisper. Sherlock didn't take his eyes off him but only gaze at him, feeling hollow as the memories passed by him like a slideshow of old portraits.

"I wasn't," Sherlock lied.

"I heard you wake up one night, screaming," Mycroft admitted, "but after that, you seemed to change. That case changed you. Working with the police changed you. And now _this_ has changed you. But after you got over that initial fear, you changed for the better. Yes, believe it or not, I think you did. My point is- whatever it is that you're going through…whatever you've seen, whoever is threatening you, there is a way out. You can get past this."

Sherlock swallowed, taking in all that his brother said. He didn't remember _ever_ receiving anything this close to a compliment from his brother before. The idea that his brother was trying to sincerely reach out to him right as he was going to do what he had to do sent a wave of nausea crashing through him. With his trembling hand he reached into his pocket, forcing his fingers to relax as they grasped the trigger of the weapon.

Mycroft froze when he pulled out the gun, and Sherlock struggled to find his voice as he said:

"Sorry, Mycroft, but all of the encouragement in the world isn't going to change what's about to happen."

"Sherlock-"

"Just stay calm," Sherlock said, more to himself than to his brother as he raised the gun. He knew Mycroft could have easily disarmed him, but his brother seemed too in shock to move as he pulled out a pair of handcuffs. "I'm sorry, I truly I am."

"I thought you needed my _help_."

A pang of sickness hit him when his brother flinched as the metal handcuffs closed around his wrist.

"I do. What's the penalty for kidnapping a government official these days?"

Mycroft stiffened at the comment, and Sherlock almost laughed.

"Am I allowed to ask questions?" Mycroft said.

"What do you think?"

"Whoever is making you do this-"

"No one is _making_ me do anything."

"Sherlock-"

"Will you please just _shut up_?"

Mycroft flinched as Sherlock waved the gun towards him but softened as Sherlock raised his hands to his head, desperate to ease the pounding headache that was now torturing him. The car fell eerily silent; he had a feeling that even Irene was in complete shock in the front.

"Just-" he began, a little more softly, "don't say anything."

His brother obeyed but refused to take his eyes off of him, making him jittery as he peered through the tinted windows, calculating how much longer it was until they reached their destination.

Twenty minutes later they were in town, and at last Mycroft drew a deep breath and spoke:

"The media will be flocking the place."

"No they won't," Sherlock said, "Lestrade's received a request to keep the media back. He'll obey. No one will even find out."

"How many other e-mail accounts did you break into?"

Sherlock just smirked.

The gun felt limp in his hand. He was aware his brother seemed relatively unthreatened, and out of habit he let his eyes drift towards the window. He felt as though he were in a dream as he examined the familiar buildings of London. Each street corner belonged to a memory, and more than ever he longed for his London life.

"What happened to the Russian man?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock's eyes remained glued to the window as he replied:

"I don't remember. I deleted it."

"No you didn't. You can't just delete everything."

A sickening feeling developed in his stomach as they passed St. Bart's. He couldn't help but to glance up to the rooftop, and in his mind he could still hear the fire of Moriarty's gun.

"Yes," he said softly. "I can."


	25. Chapter 25

Author's Note: I am so sorry for the wait! But I promise it's worth it! This chapter's longer, a character returns, and there's even some progress in character development. At least I think so. Let me know what you think!

Warnings: Drug use and violence/references to violence.

* * *

><p>Sherlock drew in a deep breath, closed his eyes, and placed his hands on either side of his head as another scream pierced the hallway.<p>

At the sound of the doorknob forcing its way open Sherlock spun around, rounding on Abrams as soon as she entered the room. He grabbed her arm and slammed her against the wall; they were only inches apart as he exclaimed:

"I did_ not_ sign up for this!"

"Then you must have not been listening." Abrams spat.

Rather than sounding intimidated, she actually sounded annoyed, prompting him to shove her harder against the wall.

"I can walk away," he warned.

"And go where?" She challenged. "Do what? Your hunt for Moran has led you _nowhere_. You can't even trust your own brother. Would you really just quit and let this all be for nothing?"

He slammed his fist into the wall next to her but stopped when she noticed her finch. The uncharacteristic reaction was enough to make him pause and study her, and he froze when he at last noticed the dark blue-black bruise around her eye. With his hand he gently reached up; she inched away from him, desperately looking away.

"Who did this?" He demanded quietly, his breath shaky.

"It's nothing," Abrams said. He allowed her to push him away, and she wrapped her arms around her stomach. "I used to work with one of the men who are here. Our relationship did not end well. I can't say he was too happy to see me."

"They let him do this?"

"It's _nothing_," she said. Her cheeks reddened with embarrassment as she let her hair fall into her face to hide the bruise. "I've had much worse."

Sherlock shook his head.

"Your knowledge of Moran is, without a doubt, helpful," he admitted, "what if you and I-"

"Teamed up?" She snorted. "There are two kinds of people in my world, Mr. Holmes- those who are selfishly evil and those who are misguided."

"And I suppose the man who hit you is simply _misguided_."

She glared at him, and he took this as a warning to let her explain.

"It is not your job to worry about me. It is not my job to be bothered by petty men who cannot let bygones be bygones. I'm beginning to think you don't have the stomach for this."

Anger overwhelmed him; he took a deep breath, telling himself it wasn't worth it to feel insulted. He headed towards the small kitchen as he replied:

"Back in London I was scolded for not having enough heart. Here I'm scolded for having too much of one."

"Just when I think I understand you, Mr. Holmes," she replied, "I can never quite figure out whose side you're on."

"That's because nobody's on my side."

He took out a few pieces of ice and wrapped them in a towel. Abrams didn't struggle when he approached her and gently placed the ice on the wound. She accepted the aid with a small, grateful, smile. He stood beside her, allowing a moment's worth of silence to pass between them as he considered what to say next.

"What happened between you and the man who hit you?"

"Noe?" She asked. He supposed that was the man's name. She smirked. "His girlfriend was an international art thief. I may have led to her arrest and imprisonment. Fifteen years."

Sherlock whistled.

"It was unintentional," she admitted, "but it wasn't anything she didn't deserve."

"What about you?" He asked. "Have you ever been caught?"

"Once," she said. A proud smile spread across her bruised face. "But I managed to escape."

"How?"

Abrams laughed.

"That's a question you do not want to know the answer to."

A moment of silence passed between them. He was more confused than ever about how he should feel about her. As much as he hated to admit it, he knew that she was the only person he could remotely trust- and might be for a long time.

"Did you hear that?" She asked suddenly.

"What?"

He turned towards her as she sat the ice down on the counter and rushed towards the door.

"Exactly."

Sherlock raced to keep up with her as he followed her through the hallway and down the steps- all the way down to the basement level, where they were keeping their _guest_.

"It's too quiet," Abrams added.

She threw open the basement door without warning, stunning the two men who were cleaning the floors. Wiping up blood, Sherlock realized. And they didn't look too happy to be doing so.

"Did you kill him?" Abrams demanded, in German.

"No!"

The younger of the two men stood up as he shouted at her; Sherlock noted right away how intimidated he was. Neither of these men was the one who hit her.

"Because that wasn't part of the plan," Abrams continued, stepping closer to the young man.

The man who was still on the ground eyed Sherlock, and he knew he was more concerned with figuring out who the newcomer was than Abrams' temper. Sherlock remained silent, taking in every detail- he knew right away the man was sixty years old, of Russian decent, raised in an orphanage, and did agriculture work before going down the path of criminal.

"We got what we want," the older man said as he got to his feet.

He never took his eyes off Sherlock.

"The other men went to free him," the older man explained.

Abrams turned to him.

"Kristoph," she said, nodding to the older man, "and George."

The younger man- George- still looked too stunned to answer.

"This is Lukas," she said. Sherlock nodded, but when the other men didn't offer to shake hands he did not argue.

"You brought us the ambassador's brother," Kristoph stated. Once again, Sherlock nodded. "Good work. We got exactly what we needed. We didn't even need to torture him."

A sickening feeling crawled up his throat at the thought that they would have even considered torturing that man.

"Here," the older man said, tossing the dirty rag he had been using to clean the floor towards him, "you two can finish up."

He nodded towards the younger man, who proceeded to follow him out of the basement. Sherlock waited until he was certain they were out of earshot before saying:

"Nice guy."

Abrams gazed after the two men, as though expecting them to suddenly appear again. When she finally shook herself out of the daze she looked around, paranoid.

"You should refrain from using English," she said, "they might get suspicious."

"None of them speak English?"

"Is that so surprising?" She replied.

"In a group full of international criminals? Yes."

"Some of them do speak English," she admitted, "But Lukas Hartmann's English- not so good."

She smirked, as though hiding a secret behind how she knew that.

At that moment a sound went off, and Abrams pulled out her mobile to check a message.

"We're wanted in the lobby." She looked up at him. "Ready to meet the crew?"

Sherlock swallowed, and his head began to pound, sending waves of panic through him. He wasn't ready for this.

"Are you sure I look like him?" Sherlock asked.

He had applied theatrical makeup earlier to hide his own scars and create a face that looked more like Lukas Hartmann. Abrams offered him a sympathetic smile as she ran a hand through his new, red, hair.

"Spitting image," she replied, "you'll do fine."

Sherlock nodded, appreciating the encouragement but still failing to believe he was up to this. Though he had accomplished a lot since leaving London, somehow the time had also shattered his confidence. He would only ever admit that to himself, but most of the time he did recognize that he was far too in over his head. He knew it was only by miracle that he survived each day.

When they entered the lobby there were four men waiting for them. Two of them sat in folding chairs as they smoked; immediately the suffocating smell of weed filled his lungs. He fought the urge to cough as he suddenly yearned for fresh air. Abrams threw him a warning glare. Instead of panicking, he drew in a deep breath, choosing his powers of deduction as means to escape the agonizing nerves that threatened to take over.

The two men were the same as the ones who just spoke to him and Abrams- and they didn't look any happier to seem them now as they had then. The third man wore army camouflage trousers and a sweatshirt that was rolled up to his elbows. It didn't take much searching to figure out why, as Sherlock's eyes immediately fell to the track marks on the man's arms. Sherlock turned to Abrams. He wanted to demand why she would ever bring him into this kind of environment, knowing his own struggle with drugs. When she saw his concern she simply nodded, and he had a feeling there would be an apology later.

His eyes turned then to the man in the center of the circle. He was rather large, and from his posture and unamused appearance he looked more like he was security guarding the entrance to a building than someone in charge of a group of criminals. But Sherlock knew he was the ring-leader simply from the way everyone's eyes immediately darted to him…and even Sherlock could sense the intimidation each person in the room was feeling.

"You must be Lukas Hartmann," the man acknowledged. Sherlock only nodded. "I admire your work in Paris last summer…I couldn't have pulled off a heist like that in my wildest dreams."

Suddenly the man smirked and turned to Abrams.

"He doesn't have a damn clue what it is I'm saying, does he?"

Abrams smiled and shook her head, and it was only then Sherlock remembered that he wasn't supposed to know any English.

"Lunatic," the man replied- in German- as he shook his head. "Smoke?"

He nodded towards an array of drugs that remained on the table. Sherlock shook his head, perhaps a little too desperately. The man raised an eyebrow, as though this struck him as odd, but did not say anything else about it.

"Good work, with the Russian," he said. "Consider yourself official. It's time for some introductions- I'm Noe, the young one is George, the older one- his brother- Kristoph. This one is Hermann. You've met Abrams, and the last member of our merry crew should be here any moment. She has been working undercover with Moran, gathering information. There is whispering going on- something major Moran is planning. That is why we needed the Russian. We thought Russia might have something to do with his plan."

The click of high heels on the hardwood floor echoed as a new figure approached them. Their heads turned towards the sound, and a smile broke out across Hermann's face.

"You were wrong," a female's voice shot, "again. Do you not value my life, Hermann?"

Sherlock could feel his heart race at the sound of the voice. Even through her fake German accent, Sherlock knew who was speaking to them.

"Do you have no appreciation for the danger I put myself in for you?" The woman continued.

A gunshot suddenly pierced the tension in the room, and Hermann leapt up, his eyes wide as he stared at the bullet hole that grazed the t-shirt hanging from his shoulders.

"Do you know what I have to do to get your information?"

The angry echoes of the shoes grew closer, and Sherlock tensed, unsure how he would react even though he knew what was coming.

At last the figure stepped into the dim light of the hotel lobby. Her hands rested at the hip of her ballroom gown. Sherlock's heart was beating so rapidly in his chest that he was certain Abrams could hear it beside him. The woman's eyes swept around the room, but it was Sherlock they landed on- not Hermann. He swallowed, realizing that she could instantly recognize him, despite his disguise.

And at that moment- knowing _she_ was involved- he was _really_ unsure what it was he had gotten himself into.

He hoped with all his might that she would play along, and his fear eased slightly when a kind smile crossed her face.

"Forgive me," the woman said, holding out her hand, "I wasn't told someone new would be joining us. I'm Irene Adler. And you are?"

He muscles tensed as he fought the shakiness in his arms. Sherlock reached up, accepting the handshake.

Instead of answering he remained silent, completely stunned by the fact that he was shaking hands with Irene Adler.

"He doesn't speak English," Noe smirked.

Irene offered him an understanding smile- though her eyes glimmered with excitement. He knew she was bursting with amusement at his appearance.

"Did you find out anything knew?" Noe asked, in German.

"April 19, 2014," she replied.

The group stared at her.

"Whatever he's planning, that's when it will happen," she said. She accepted a cigarette from Hermann. A moment of silence passed as she breathed in a deep breath of smoke and closed her eyes. "He's planning a major bank heist in Munich. He wants inside a safety deposit box. There's something there he believes crucial to his plot. We must go there before him and ensure nothing is inside that box."

"Won't that get his attention?" Abrams pointed out.

"What's more important?" Irene shot. "Getting Moran's attention or possibly saving millions of lives? He should have our attention. He should know there's a threat. He won't be stopped by hiding in the shadows."

At that moment Sherlock's eyes locked with hers, and he realized that moment that maybe he had always seriously misjudged Irene. He thought back to seeing her in her mother's hospital room, to seeing how tense she had been around Moran.

"That's a plan, then," Noe said.

"It's not that easy," Irene said, "I must go back to England first, he's expecting me. The heist is set for next month- wait for my word."

"And until then?" Noe replied. He was obviously not too thrilled at the idea of doing nothing for a month- and neither was Sherlock.

Irene shrugged.

"Keep kidnapping innocent relatives of innocent ambassadors. Since that is working out so well."

With that she put out the cigarette, and her eyes flew up again to meet his. She was angry with him, he realized, and he wasn't too keen to know why as she demanded:

"Can I have a word with you, Mr. Hartmann?"

Sherlock nodded and turned, heading for the staircase. They said nothing as they climbed the stairs and he led her into his room. The moment he shut the door he felt himself being thrown at the wall.

"What the bloody hell do you think you're doing here?" She exclaimed, in her normal accent.

"I could ask you the same."

He wasn't surprised when she slapped him.

"Pretending to be Lukas Hartmann?" She shot. "Are you really that stupid?"

"And what about you?" He demanded. "Whose side are you really on?"

This time she punched him. He stumbled, and when he regained composure her fist met his face once more.

"Okay!" He exclaimed. "Irene-"

She grabbed him by the shoulders, pinning him against the wall.

"Explain."

"I'm trying," he sighed. "I was brought into this by Anabeth Abrams. It wasn't really by choice, but I did need to find a way to get closer to Moran."

"Surely you realize by now these people don't simply want to kill Moran."

"Obviously not," Sherlock said, "or else _you_ would have long ago."

"We're trying to stop everything Moran is planning to do."

"Forgive me if I'm not too quick to trust you," Sherlock shot.

"Forgive me if I'm not too confident about your place in this group."

They glared at each other, and Sherlock took the moment of silence as opportunity to observer. She had just as many new scars on her face as he did. Her hair was much lighter shade of brown- almost blonde. Despite the pound of makeup she wore, there were visible bags underneath Irene's eyes.

"Where have you been?" He asked her, a little less forcefully.

"A party," Irene sighed. "It was there that I found out the date of Moran's endgame."

"How?"

Her eyes narrowed and glistened with dark anticipation.

"He asked me to join him."

Sherlock stiffened. Part of him wanted to lash out and lecture her, as though she were a younger sister making a terrible decision.

"I thought you were done with working with him," Sherlock replied.

"I will still be undercover," Irene assured.

"Under cover or playing both sides?"

He took an unconscious step back, certain the comment would earn him a slap in the face. Irene looked like she wanted nothing more than to do just that but somehow, she restrained herself.

"I swear to you, Sherlock Holmes, that I have nothing to do with Sebastian Moran," Irene replied coldly. "I may have in the past, but never because that is where my morals truly lay."

"Misguided," Sherlock muttered underneath his breath, remembering what Abrams said to him earlier.

"What?" She asked, studying him.

"Nothing," he lied.

He drew in a deep breath, unsure of what else to say. Was it really his place to accuse of her being a traitor? He often forgot how little he really knew of Irene Adler. He still knew so little of her past…

And yet, as she took a step closer to him, his breath caught in his throat. He swallowed, growing nervous as he realized she could see right through him. She smirked and raised her hand and rested it on his arm.

"You know so much less than what you think," she whispered.

"And so I've heard," he replied quietly.

"Your own brother sent you to kill me."

"I know."

Their eyes met.

"Telling your brother I stopped working for Moran got him off my back for a while, but not for long. After that I joined this team. Everyone here knows who I am. They know how valuable I am to them. Moran thinks the exact same thing."

"And how long before he finds out?" Sherlock challenged. "How long before rumors spread?"

Irene smirked.

"If I didn't know any better, Mr. Holmes, I'd say you were worried about me."

His cheeks reddened slightly, but he quickly saved himself by replying:

"I'm simply wondering how you could have lost your way."

Her eyes narrowed, unamused.

"I have never lost my way," she shot, "do not convince yourself you understand me."

At that moment an alert sounded from her mobile, and she took the phone out to read a text. Upon finishing the message, she walked carefully over to the bed, collapsing gracefully on the edge.

"It's Moran, thanking me for always being on his side."

She spoke so quietly she might as well have told him someone died. He sat down next to her, his eyes glued to the floor as he desperately avoided the urge to stare at her.

"What kind of relationship do you have with Moran?" He asked.

She let out a sarcastic laugh.

"He's been thinking of me as his new right hand man," she admitted, "that's what he's aiming for, at least."

Her eyes trailed towards him at that moment, and he couldn't help but to follow her lead. He gazed at her, realizing at that moment how shallow his breath was and- most embarrassing- how rapidly his heart was beating.

"Do you know why Sebastian Moran is texting me in the middle of the night, thanking me?" She asked. He remained silent. "He's desperate. He's losing his _friends_. He has no one left to trust. Slowly, but surely, you're winning, Mr. Holmes. You've broken down his defenses, and now he's struggling to catch up. He needs to plan something big to be back on top. He feels threatened, though he would never admit it. I never would have joined any such crew without having reason to believe they would succeed. I truly think we can bring Moran down…but you should not be here."

She reached up and brushed a hand through his hair, mimicking the same gesture Abrams did earlier. Yet this time he froze. A wave of heat rushed through him, and he struggled with remembering to breathe.

"How did you get involved with all of this, Sherlock Holmes?" She states softly. "The unfortunate brother of one of the most dangerous government officials. You were caught in the crossfire-"

Her fingers trailed down his arm, where he knew the faded scars of track marks were still visible. When he finally found the strength to speak, he asked:

"What do you do for Moran?"

She studied his arm as she replied.

"I'm very good at getting what I want. I have contacts even your brother would dream of having. Success isn't very hard to come by when you're aligned with Sebastian Moran. Like you, I was young and stupid when I first met him. I was tempted by his offers. But I must have become wiser, somehow, as I grew older. I began to see him for what he was and lately- lately I look in the mirror and I have no idea how I became this…_monster_."

He shook his head. It sickened him to see her feel so sorry for herself. He wasn't sure where this vulnerability- in either of them- came from, but he knew the Irene Adler he originally met would have never said such a thing.

"You're not-"

"When I told Mycroft I quit I wanted nothing more than for that to be true," she admitted. "But it's not that easy. I can't just run away."

He studied her, and for the first time she tore her eyes away. She must have remembered then his powers of deduction, and it was then he suddenly realized what he was missing.

"What made you change?" He demanded. "Why the sudden interest in changing sides?"

Once again Irene raised a hand, and he allowed her palm to fall to the side of his face.

"You look so much like your brother," she whispered. Her other hand fell to his hand that was resting in his lap. Her fingers were cold to the touch as they connected with his.

Before he could comprehend what was happening her lips fell onto his. His breath became caught in his throat and all thoughts froze in his mind. Her hand gracefully cradled his jaw, as though reassuring him everything was alright. And before he could decide just how he felt about whatever _this_ was, she pulled away.

Her eyes fell to the floor, and he simply stared at her.

"You just told me I looked like my brother and then kissed me."

She just laughed, and her eyes flashed towards him, twinkling in amusement. His stomach twisted into knots of confusion and fear. He felt like running away and pretending nothing ever happened, but yet the moment was already replaying in his mind so frantically he yearned to relive it.

"Yes, I did."

Now the confusion tugged at him even more.

"Do you…have feelings for Mycroft then?" He asked.

He had never felt so pathetic.

"Oh god!" She exclaimed. "Now I might be ill."

She stood, shaking her head desperately, and gathered her handbag.

"It's late," she said, "I should go, I have to leave-"

His hand fell onto her wrist. In that moment he could calculate exactly how fast her pulse was beating, and because of this he knew just exactly how much she did not want to leave.

"You don't have to leave," he whispered.

Every ounce of him fought against those words, demanding to know what it was he thought he was doing.

"I have a flight England in the morning," she said quietly, "it will be a long time before you see me again. You will have to go through with the bank heist. If you are truly committed to this-"

"I am."

"You shouldn't be."

"Why not?" He demanded.

"Because I couldn't bear the thought of something happening to you when it's my hand that's on the trigger."

When their eyes connected again he noticed another tear trailing gracefully down her cheek. He took a step closer to her.

"I think you've been struggling with this for so long that you've forgotten the part of you that's good," he said. "You're not stuck. You want redemption as much as I want revenge…and I think that's the perfect combination."

A sad smile tugged at the edge of her lips.

"I'm probably boring you," she sighed. "Look at me…I'm a mess. Can't go back to England like this."

"You look beautiful."

He shut his mouth as quickly as he opened it, embarrassed to realize someone else heard him utter those words. Her hand fell to his, giving his palm a squeeze.

"I still don't know how you managed to get yourself caught up in all of this, Sherlock Holmes," she announced, "but I can't think of anyone else I'd rather have on my side."

"Say hi to Mycroft for me, if you see him," he said. Then he considered his choice of words. "Actually- don't."

He smirked, which earned him a smile.

"Forgive me," she insisted, "I usually try to not be this melodramatic."

His hands fell into his pockets as he gazed at her, unsure of what to do. Kiss her again? Or simply act like nothing special happened? His heart was racing, yearning for more…but he knew how hopelessly unprepared he was for this.

"It's good to see you, Irene."

She nodded.

"Until we meet again, then," she said. "Look after yourself."

"And you."

With that she offered him one last smile before the door shut behind her. It didn't take but a second's worth of hearing her heels echo down the hall before he regretted not asking her to stay. He raised a finger to his lips, still able to feel the taste of the kiss. He was stuck halfway between bursting with excitement and burning with embarrassment.

Too many emotions, he decided.

Instead he threw himself onto the bed, where he stared at the ceiling until he eventually fell asleep.


	26. Chapter 26

It was February before he would hear from Irene again. While she was gone the group was left in the dark. Sherlock remained trapped at the hotel with Anabeth, who hardly spoke to him. Not that he wished to be spoken to.

For a couple of weeks he wondered around Vienna. The history and architecture of the city offered a welcomed escape from the bundle of emotions that had taken over ever since the kiss. But the more he tried to erase the moment from his mind- tried to pretend like it didn't matter-the more he realized that it _did_ matter. Yet he still wasn't sure why, for the same reason he wasn't sure why he was kept awake night after night, wondering of Irene's well-being.

At last, one night towards the end of his second month in Austria Noe received word from Irene, and Sherlock found himself on a train to Munich the next morning. The chance to get out of Vienna felt like a chance to breathe again. He found the bank easily and was relieved to find it was still closed for the morning. Breaking in was easy enough. Per Irene's instructions he had to the code to get into the vault and safe.

He was alone when he finally reached into the safe and pulled out what Moran was after: a notebook. Sherlock carefully opened the book to the first page. He nearly stopped breathing when he found a map of the center of London, with a certain landmark circled-

A mobile ringtone went off. Sherlock jumped; he had forgotten about the emergency phone he had been offered by Abrams. He didn't recognize the number that was calling and chose to speak with his fake accent as he answered.

"Hello?"

There was a moment of shallow breaths on the other line before a woman's voice replied:

"Sherlock?" He stopped at the sound of Irene's struggling voice. "Sherlock- are you in Munich?"

He wasn't sure how to answer. Closing his eyes, he took a moment just to be grateful to hear from her once again. He chose to disregard not knowing how she got this number.

"Yes."

A million things that he wanted to say to her crossed his mind, but he couldn't find the courage to say any of them. Instead, he waited for her reply.

"Moran found out," she choked on her words a little, and a sour feeling developed in his throat. "You've got to get out of there."

Sherlock tucked the notebook into his jacket and stuck his head outside the room of safety deposit boxes. There was still no sign of anyone else in the building.

"What are you talking about?" He asked. "Where are you?"

"In a hospital," she whispered. He froze. "Moran found out what I was doing."

"What happened to you?" He demanded. He slammed a fist into the wall next to him, feeling helpless and too far away from her.

"You can't be in that bank," Irene said. "You have to get out of Munich. If Moran finds out you're there, he'll kill you."

"How did this happen?"

"Sherlock- just get out of there."

She sounded so unlike herself, so desperate, that he didn't know what to think.

"Where are you?" He asked.

He began to close the vault and flee the building as he waited for the reply.

"In a hospital in Liverpool."

"Liverpool?"

"I have contacts there, I tried to escape when Moran found out, but he found me."

"You're in a hospital?"

"Someone found me and took me there," Irene said. "I don't want to be here, Sherlock I-"

As he exited the building his heart began to race.

"I'm coming to get you," he announced.

"You can't go back to England."

"I don't care."

* * *

><p>He knew a handful of credit card numbers off hand he could use to buy a flight ticket, and in the end he chose an emergency account he knew Mycroft rarely kept track of. He was in Liverpool by that afternoon and was rushing through the hospital doors by sundown. After tracking down the number of Irene's room he found himself standing at there at the door. He paused, head bowed as he caught his breath. Upon hearing the faint beeping of a heart monitor he grew desperate to see her and placed his hands on the doorknob.<p>

The bed was empty when he entered the room.

"Irene?" He asked carefully.

"I'm here."

He swirled around, facing the dim-lighted shadows where Irene stood. She stepped towards him, revealing her injuries. He was too stunned to reply as his eyes found each bruise on her face and the cast on her hand.

"I'm sorry I worried you," she state quietly. "The drugs they gave me when I arrived were strong. They messed with my mind a little."

Sherlock felt ill himself as he catalogued her injuries. Her face was sunken and pale, with collections of blue-black bruises. He could tell by the way she ran her hands up and down her arms that she was freezing, despite the warmth of the room. He thought for sure he might throw up when he noticed an injection mark on her right arm.

"Moran did this?" He said with a shaky voice.

"You can say he wasn't too thrilled to realize his right hand man was his worst enemy."

"I'll kill him," Sherlock swore.

"Sherlock-"

"He just-"

He held his palms against his eyes, determined to keep the emotions at bay. He couldn't help but to feel like this was _his_ fault. Moran was so angry because of him; somehow, _he_ had made this so much worse.

"It's not true," Irene whispered. He looked up at her in surprise. "Whatever you're thinking, it's not true. Moran has no idea who I'm working with, just that I haven't exactly been faithful to him."

Sherlock sighed, unsure of what to say. After a long pause he finally bothered to examine the hospital room and noticed the discharge papers on the bed.

"We have a flight back to Austria in a couple of hours," he said. "Are you sure you still want to be a part of this?"

Irene nodded.

"Now more than ever."

* * *

><p>They found the hotel empty when they returned to Vienna. He hadn't slept since he last left the city, but that didn't stop him from bombarding Irene with questions of her well-being.<p>

"I'm _fine_," she insisted once again. "Sherlock, please, I'm sorry ever called you."

They glared at each other until she broke out into a grin, and he knew she was exaggerating. She lay on his bed, a bag of ice that she was ignoring at her side. Her bruises were beginning to heal, and though she honestly did not look as bad now that she had a little more energy, he could still see the signs of trauma in her eye.

"Where's the bloody notebook?" She demanded. "I want to see what I almost got killed over."

He withdrew the notebook and handed to it to her. Sherlock sat down next to her on the bed, watching as she carefully examined each page.

"Oh my god," she whispered.

"I know."

"Sherlock-" she glanced towards him, but could only continue to repeat: "Oh my god."

"Moran wanted you to be a part of this," he realized.

She placed the book in her lap and gazed at him.

"Thank you," she said softly, "you didn't have to rescue me."

"Of course I did."

She paused and began to gaze into his eyes, studying him in a way that made him feel highly uncomfortable.

"About what happened when I was last here…I'm sorry, that was out of line."

"No it wasn't."

There he went again, speaking out of turn before he could even process how he truly felt.

She continued to gaze at him, and he was so entranced by her eyes that he didn't notice her leaning closer and closer towards him, until once again her lips had captured his. His eyes fell closed and he let out a stifled sigh, allowing the kiss to go a little deeper this time. When she pulled away her hands rested on his shoulders, keeping him close.

"Sorry," she muttered, "I know you're not very…experienced."

"Sorry," he replied sharply, "but I thought you were gay."

Irene smirked.

"And I thought you didn't care."

He caught her eye and offered her a grin before sitting back. Taking a deep breath, he tried to comprehend what was going on- all while forgetting what they were actually there for. Both their eyes fell onto the notebook.

"What are we going to do with this?" He said, picking the book up.

"I assume you've read it?" She asked. He nodded. "Are you sure you don't want to get your brother involved?"

"Mycroft?" He said. "God no. Mycroft could start World War Three with this." He paused for a moment, and then asked: "Do they trust you here?"

Irene sighed.

"Yes? Maybe. I think."

"We need them to trust you fully," Sherlock said, "we have to show this to them."

"They might second-guess me," Irene pointed out, "they could start to think I'm playing them."

"Are you?"

She glared at him, and he immediately regretted speaking. They fell silent, and he couldn't help but to wonder back to the kiss. How was it that he had no idea what it meant, no idea what he even wanted, and yet he couldn't stop thinking of her?

"You and Moran," he began carefully, unsure of the appropriate way to ask, "did you ever-"

"Yes." His eyes shot up to meet hers, stunned by the quick reply. "As have I and lots of men. And women. Does that bother you?" He didn't reply. He had no clue what to think- or what he was supposed to think. A playful smile appeared on her face. "Ah, you're worried I'm just toying with you. Well if it makes you feel any better, Mr. Holmes, I assure you I'm twice as confused about you as you are of me."

"Right."

That didn't make him feel better. At all. Irene placed her hand on his; he shivered at the touch.

"For now I think we need to continue to act like we don't know each other," she said. "No visits to each other's room. No eye contact. We're perfect strangers."

With a hand he carefully reached up and brushed a finger across a bruise beneath her eye. The sight of her injuries still made him sick to the stomach.

"You said someone found you and took you to the hospital," he said.

Irene looked away, and he felt guilty for forcing her to remember.

"I was dumped out of a car, on the side of the road," she admitted. "Moran's nice way of saying he was done with me. I'm very lucky he didn't kill me."

"Why didn't he?"

Irene's eyes turned cold, and it was then he realized she was in more danger being free from Moran than when she was with him.

"In case he needs me again," she whispered.

He placed his other hand on her cast, allowing their fingers to lock together. He leaned closer to her, and they were only inches apart when he replied:

"That will never happen."

_April 19, 2014_

Sherlock remained silent as he forced his brother out of the car at gunpoint. The driver's side door closed, and Irene Adler appeared next to them. Their eyes met, and his heart skipped a beat as she silently let him know she was there for him with a simple nod of the head. Mycroft smirked.

"Ah," his brother said, "of course. You two, together. The Dominatrix and the Consulting Detective. How adorable."

Sherlock glared at him and shoved the gun into his back purely out of spite, causing Mycroft to stumble forward a few feet. As they walked forward Irene brushed a hand over his shoulder and he shuddered, the memory of their last night together still etched into his mind.

"You'll never get away with this," Mycroft warned.

His brother's eyes narrowed, but Sherlock knew he was only concerned. He swallowed, feeling anxious as his eyes trailed up the side of the landmark they were standing behind:

Thames House.


	27. Chapter 27

Sherlock shivered as the damp air of the dark corridor hit him. He wrapped his arms around himself as he stepped out of the room. It was nearly two in the morning, and after another case of not being able to fall asleep he had finally settled for taking a walk.

The month of April snuck up on him, and that night he was hit with the realization that he had already been here for four months. Little had been accomplished, and each day he wondered why he stayed.

Irene drifted in and out of the picture…and in and out of his room. Some days she barely spoke to him, while others she refused to leave his side. She would wonder into his room without a word and sit next to him, knees curled to her chest, and she would sit in silence. For hours.

She fascinated him and frustrated him all at the same time.

When he reached the kitchens on the bottom floor he was surprised to see that a light was on. Abrams was there, making tea. She looked up and their eyes met. It had been weeks since they'd spoken, and she was more foreign to him than ever.

"Would you like some tea?" She asked.

He nodded.

They lingered by the counter without speaking. He welcomed the warmth of the tea as he considered all he had been wanting to- but hadn't dared- asking her.

"You and Irene seem close," Abrams said. He stopped, his mug of tea frozen in mid-air. She smiled, slyly. "Careful, that. Wouldn't want you to get hurt."

"We just talk," he lied.

"Sure," Abrams smirked. "You just talk, all night. I see her sneak into your room."

He studied her, taking in the bags under her eyes and her skin, which was much paler than it had been four months ago.

"You've changed," he noted.

"You're very quiet," she replied.

"I'm just wondering what the point of being here is," he admitted.

Over the last two months nothing more had come out of finding the notebook. Sherlock led them in a few bank robberies, for "funding", which always seemed to result in nothing.

"Revolution always involves in a lot of waiting," she said.

"Or you're being to doubt them yourself."

She didn't reply.

"You and Irene, did you know each other before all this?" She asked.

He considered for a moment telling her the truth, but when it came to Irene he found himself desperately wanting to keep anything having to do with her a secret.

"No."

"Then you do not know about her," she said. "She…let's say, gets around."

Sherlock couldn't help but to laugh.

"And how do you know?"

Abrams smiled sadly, her eyes lost in some far away memory. He realized the reaction made him uncomfortable.

"We met once before," she said. "I'm not too proud of it. I feel like I should warn you, Sherlock. She breaks hearts. Whatever you think may be happening between you two, it's not."

No wonder Abrams had been so quiet, he realized. Being around Irene must be making her even more uncomfortable than he was.

"I just thought I should warn you," she said.

"Thanks," he muttered, "but I'm fine on my own."

She laughed.

"I always had the impression that you were- oh my god!"

She grabbed his hand and pointed towards the entrance to the kitchen. Sherlock turned and was startled to see George stumbling into the kitchens, one hand over his eye and the other wrapped around his waist.

"George?" Abrams asked. "What happened?"

"Bauer," George mumbled.

Abrams forced his hand away from his eye, revealing a thick cut that was bleeding from his brow. She grabbed a towel from the counter and placed it over the wound.

"He tried to kill me," George explained, breathlessly.

He pointed at his stomach. Sherlock carefully peeled away the man's bloodied jacket to reveal a stab wound. George winced as Sherlock pressed another towel against it.

"Here," Abrams said, placing the towel into George's hand, "Lukas, come help me."

She led him to the freezer, where she began to get some ice.

"Sherlock, there's something you should know," she whispered.

"What-"

She glared at him, silencing him.

"Julian Bauer was hired by Moriarty to kill John Watson." Sherlock froze, his mind turning to ice as he thought of John, desperately trying to prevent him from jumping. John…suffering in London. "When you jumped, Bauer was ordered by Moran to keep an eye on him, just in case there was a chance you were still alive. He's been following him ever since. The fact that he's turned up here…it means Moran knows where you are."

Sherlock stared at her, a million thoughts racing through his mind. He couldn't help but to think of what Abrams said about Irene but…_no_. He refused to lose his trust in her that easily.

"I've got to go," he announced.

"No-"

"Make sure Noe doesn't know I'm gone."

"Noe…knows," George muttered.

Their heads turns towards him, and Sherlock panicked, worried that he heard them.

"Wants him alive," George continued, "that's why I went out. Wants to interrogate him…"

Sherlock turned to leave, shoving Abrams away when he reached out to stop him. Once he was outside let out a breath of air. A few shady looking passersby glanced at him, looking just as skeptical of him as he was of them.

He took off running down the street, stopping at an alleyway to take out his gun. Just as he did his mobile went off.

"Hello?" He answered, with a shaky breath.

"Fifth street," Irene breathed, "alley."

As soon as she hung up he took off running. Fifth was only a few blocks away. Bauer was close- too close. Sherlock arrived there within minutes, gun already drawn. He didn't lower his weapon, even as Irene Adler came into view.

It was the first time he'd seen her in two weeks, and the sight of her made him froze. Irene smirked, well aware of the effect she had on him.

"I thought you should be the one to decide what to do with him," Irene said, her heels clicking as she circled around the man who lay on the ground. "Though I have to warn you-"

"Noe wants him alive," Sherlock finished.

He stepped forward, admiring Irene's work. The man on the ground was waking from unconsciousness. A nasty bruise was around his eye. Both his arm and leg stuck out at odd angles. Two of his fingers looked broken, and his neck was red, as though someone tried to choke him.

"I didn't realize George already broke his arm," Irene said, "now the poor man has a broken leg too."

"It's not nearly enough."

Irene's eyes flashed towards him and illuminated in surprise when he raised his weapon.

"Sherlock!" She exclaimed. "Not yet- George is right, Noe is right."

"They're right?" Sherlock shot. "How do I even know who to trust anymore?"

She looked hurt, but didn't respond.

"I haven't seen you in two weeks," he stated quietly.

"That's sweet," Bauer mumbled.

Sherlock shot him in the leg. He ignored Bauer's scream; his eyes remained glued to Irene's.

"I assure you, I have no idea why he's here," Irene said.

Sherlock turned away from her and looked at the man on the ground. Bauer glared at him as he clutched his leg.

"Devil," Bauer hissed.

Sherlock drew in a deep breath. He knew what he wanted to do, but he couldn't.

But he had to.

"Sherlock-" Irene warned.

"You were sent to kill John Watson," Sherlock said.

"And I should have," Bauer shot, "have you seen him lately? Coward."

Sherlock shot the other leg. Bauer shouted out even louder.

"And some hero his friend is," Bauer continued.

"Sherlock, don't listen to him," Irene pleaded, "he does this, he's just trying to get to you."

"She would know," Bauer commented, his eyes glimmering.

This time Irene pointed her own gun at him but did not shoot. Instead she stepped closer to Sherlock, blocking his view of Bauer.

"You can't kill him," she whispered, "I brought you here because I only thought it was right, but you can't kill him."

"Why?"

She hesitated, gazing at him with desperate eyes. He was disturbed to realize how hot his cheeks burned as their eyes met; his hands trembled slightly.

"Because it's not what you do," she whispered.

"He was sent to kill John," Sherlock said quietly, desperately.

"Yes," she replied, her eyes full of sympathy, "sent by Moriarty. You should see how he and Moran manipulate people."

"Yes, I can see." He instantly regretted saying that as he saw how offended she looked. "I'm sorry."

He heard the distant pounding of footsteps against pavement.

"Noe would have come running the minute George told him where Bauer is," Irene said, "you can't let him see you like this. We've got to keep playing along."

"Why would you bring him here?" Sherlock demanded. "Why, when I can't do anything?"

The footsteps were getting closer.

"I would have killed your friend," Bauer said. "If Moriarty hadn't been such a coward, and if you weren't so damn proud."

Another gunshot went off, and Irene gasped. Sherlock stared at the gun in his hand, now empty of bullets. His fingers trembled madly, so much he dropped his weapon at his feet. Bauer lay silent; dead.

"Sherlock…" Irene said, her voice shaking, "I never should have brought you here."

His eyes flashed towards her.

"It's good you did," he replied coldly. "I can't forget my original mission."

With that his mind snapped. He stumbled forward, landing against the brick wall. This couldn't be real.

He had no idea why he was panicking like this.

"Sherlock," Irene whispered, stepping towards him. She placed a hand on his shoulder, but he couldn't feel it. "You snapped. It's okay."

Sherlock raised his hands to his head, covering his face.

"He was going to kill John," he muttered, "he doesn't even know him, and he- and I'm just the same person." He forced himself to look at the body on the ground; forced himself to face what he had done. "What have I become?"

She raised a hand and placed it gently on his face.

"Your original mission was to protect your friends," she said. "You've been doing that in the only way you know how…but you don't have to. I panicked, when I realized who Bauer was."

"You knew?" He asked her. "You never told me-"

"I know," she whispered, "for this very reason. I've been trying to protect you. You have no idea what these men are capable of."

"They have no idea what I'm capable of."

A sad smile crossed her face.

"Sherlock, Moran's not going to be happy," she said, "and he'll know-"

"What the hell is going on?"

Their heads turned at the sound of Noe's voice, speaking in German. He stormed towards the body on the ground. He stared at it a full moment before turning to both Irene and Sherlock in turn. Sherlock turned and noticed Abrams standing beside Kristoph, looking shaken and ashamed.

Sherlock was frozen. He realized how much Noe could have heard-

Noe took a step towards him.

"You speak English," he said, in English.

His silence was met by the palm of Noe's hand, slapping him hard across the face.

"Do you think this is a game?" Noe shot. "Do you think-"

"Clearly, he doesn't," Irene snapped, stepping towards Noe.

"Sherlock," Noe said, testing the name. "The great Sherlock Holmes, right at my fingertips."

A wicked smile crossed his face.

"Or maybe this isn't so bad after all."

Sherlock stared at him, confused, but he didn't have long to wait. Noe nodded at someone behind him, and before Sherlock could turn around something sharp collided with the back of his head.

He heard Irene scream his name as the world went black.


	28. Chapter 28

**Warnings**: for drug use and violence

* * *

><p>Sherlock carefully peeled his eyes open, mindful of the splitting headache that greeted him as he came to. From the piercing pain in the back of his head he estimated he had been pistol-whipped. Groaning, he let his vision re-focus and took in his surroundings.<p>

He was confused to realize he was back at the hotel, in the basement. Abrams was standing a few feet before him, wearing a look of pity and shame.

"I'm so sorry," she stated quietly, "he made you tell me where you went. I had no idea Irene Adler would be with you."

"Neither did I," Sherlock muttered.

Upon hearing the pain in his voice she stepped forward, revealing the damp washcloth in her hand. Reaching up, she gently applied pressure to the wound on the back of his head.

Sherlock realized that he couldn't actually feel her hand, though he knew what she must be doing. Images began dancing before his eyes; flashing lights and fainting clouds of darkness blended in with his view of the basement. He began breathing heavily; the rising and falling of his heart stabbed at his chest.

"Why do I feel like this?"

"They drugged you."

His eyes trailed up to her, wondering if he had heard right. She glanced towards his arm, and he saw his sleeve had been rolled up passed his elbow. Suddenly the hooded jacket he was wearing felt entirely too warm; he broke out in a cold sweat.

"With what?" He asked; his voice broke in panic.

"Sherlock, look at me," Abrams ordered. She kneeled down to her knees so that she was level with him; their eyes connected. "Noe has a plan. He wants to send you to work with Moran."

"_What?"_

"Listen to me!" She cried. "He thinks that he's discovered the perfect way to get through to Moran: you."

"Why does he think I would agree with that?"

He didn't mean to sound so frightened, but it was only because he anticipated Abrams' response:

"He doesn't expect you to." She fell silent for a moment, before continuing: "He wants you to be a kind of- double agent. He wants Moran to think that you've turned, that you want to go back to being _friends_."

"I have a grand theory," Sherlock shot, "why doesn't he just go after him and-"

"Kill him?"

Sherlock's eyes shot to an out-of-focus figure of Noe. Arms crossed, he admired his work.

"If you think that getting rid of what of what you call 'Moriarty's web' is that easy, then you were the wrong man for the job, _Sherlock Holmes_." His heart began to race upon hearing his name. "Ah, yes, I do know who you are. Are you so surprised? I'm sure your friend has been filling you in."

Kristoph and George, who did not look too pleased to be sporting his black eye, entered behind Noe. Sherlock immediately noted the gun sticking out of the back of Noe's trousers. He also noticed that Irene Adler was nowhere to be seen.

Noe smirked, as he must have seen the panic rise in his eyes.

"You're going to offer him a bargain: your allegiance for the end of all your pain. He'll think you're desperate. He'll think you've snapped. Which, judging by your stunt tonight, doesn't seem far from the truth."

Sherlock closed his eyes tightly as he was forced to recall the incident that took place earlier. A tingling sensation took over him, and he suddenly shivered, despite feeling warm just moments earlier.

"You are to work with him, do whatever he asks, and you'll report the information back to me."

"Sounds like a familiar plan," Sherlock said, "remember how well that turned out?"

His sarcasm masked his desperate need to know where Irene was- if he was okay. But he knew he couldn't ask; he couldn't let Noe know how much she…

_No._

Not "meant to him".

He swallowed, forcing those emotions away.

"I will be giving Moran exactly what he wants," Noe said. "You should be thankful. I could simply hand you over myself. That would be much worse for you."

Suddenly Noe withdrew something from his pocket: a syringe. Sherlock tensed.

"A little something while you think through the next chapter of your life," Noe said. "Sherlock Holmes."

The needle was forced into his skin. He bit his lip, fighting back a scream as a hot pain swarmed through him. A wicked smile crossed Noe's face as he leaned closer to him.

"And if you're wondering what your motivation behind this is supposed to be," he whispered, "we have your girlfriend. And your entire life story. We can bring you down, Mr. Holmes. We'll _burn_ you."

All Sherlock would later remember of the conversation was the sound of his own, frantic, breathing. He was entirely too aware of his surroundings as he waited in the center of the basement. Wrapping his arms around his freezing body, he closed his eyes for a moment, willing the effect of the drugs to subside.

Noe left him with a second dose of the drug and his mobile phone ("we will be monitoring you closely"). Before he blacked out he recalled Noe sending a text, and as soon as he came to he checked his messages. The text was to Moran, telling him he won.

He wasn't sure why he hadn't fled the hotel yet and escaped Austria. Instead, Sherlock simply waited for whatever would happen next.

His mind was too clustered with ideas to focus on what he should say. Every now and then his thoughts would trickle back to Irene, and the worry was so painful he had to close his eyes and reboot his mind. He tried to focus on just what Noe thought he would get out of this arrangement.

Obviously sending him to work for Moran was a far better concept than sending Irene Adler. He had a feeling Irene originally went under her own influence, but he was smart enough to admit that he was worth far more than to Moran than she was.

He stayed, he realized, because he had nowhere else to go. This arrangement could mean more progress than ever in this mission. The decision to stay with Abrams had been a stupid one- not that he had much choice in the matter. It was a waste of time, apart from learning a few extra details.

But he couldn't go running back to Mycroft now. For one, he was so angry at his brother that he was certain he would be tempted to hurt him the next time he laid eyes on him. He had to force himself not to wonder what kind of deals Mycroft had been making with Moran…though as the echo of footsteps and the shadow of a man descended down the basement stairwell, he had a feeling he would not have to wait for long.

A shadow of the man approached him. Sherlock held his breath, not daring to say anything as Sebastian Moran drew closer.

He didn't remember Moran being much older than him, but he had certainly aged. His time in hiding was worn well on his face, which was littered with shades of faded scars. He was neither as well dressed as Moriarty, nor as fit. His wardrobe mirrored what he wore back when Sherlock thought he was homeless, and judging by his style he hadn't been in Austria for long.

Moran stood in front of him, staring him down. His eyes trailed from the scar on his forehead to his hand, which rubbed subconsciously against the track marks on his arm. Upon seeing this, Moran grinned. He broke out into a fit of laughter, so reminiscent of Moriarty that Sherlock shuddered at the memory.

"I win?" Moran spat. "I _win_? You kill half of my men, and you decide to bring me here so you can say that I _win_?"

Sherlock wasn't sure what he was supposed to say, so he remained silent.

"Well do you have anything to say for yourself?" Moran said.

He drew in a shaky breath and curled his hands into fists, trying to stay calm. He was sure what he had to say, he just didn't want to.

"I have a proposition to make," Sherlock said. "My allegiance."

Moran looked like he was trying to not laugh.

"In exchange for what?" Moran asked.

"My life back." It wasn't a part of Noe's plan, but if he could make it work all of this could be worth it. "The safety of my friends, of my brother."

This time, Moran burst out into a fit of laughter.

"Of your brother?" Moran exclaimed. He laughed too hard his face was turning red. _"Your brother?"_

Before he could react Moran punched him in the stomach and slammed him onto the floor. He struggled for breath as Moran wrapped an arm around his neck.

"Your brother?" Moran said again. "You dare to come to me and ask me for your allegiance in return for the safety of your brother? When I finish telling you about your brother you'll never want to so much as look at him. You kill half of my men, and you think I'll believe you when you say you want to join me?"

"I've only killed half of your men," Sherlock muttered, struggling to breathe, "it's been two years I…I just want my life back."

Moran's laughter echoed right next to his ears. Sherlock winced; he hated how desperate he sounded, but deep down he knew he was telling the truth.

"Look at you," Moran said. "Moriarty would never have worshipped you so much if he knew how pathetic you really are."

With that Moran let him go, and Sherlock gasped, trying to breathe again.

"In the past two years you've only taken down half of my team," Moran said. "You've spent most of that time in hiding. You couldn't even take down Moriarty when he was standing right in front of your face."

"In my defense, Moriarty killed himself."

His sarcasm earned him a kick to the ribs. Sherlock groaned and his hand fell immediately to his side.

"Do you think I don't know this?" Moran screamed. "Do you know what you've caused me in the past two years? Why the hell do you think I would work with you?"

Sherlock lay on his back, panting as he stared up at Moran.

"Because I'm still alive," Sherlock said. Moran immediately fell silent. "You're as desperate as I am. You're losing followers. What, are you going to do your own work? If you didn't want anything to do with me you would have killed me five years ago. So what is it, Moran? What do you need help with?"

Moran crossed his arms and studied him for a moment.

"The notebook," Moran demand, "I know you took it."

Sherlock nodded towards the chair he had previously been tied to. Once he knew was his task was he knew the first thing Moran would ask for would be the notebook. Moran's eyes lingered on him for another moment, but Sherlock interrupted him before he could turn away.

"One more thing," Sherlock said leaping to his feet.

Once Moran was within reach he punched him in the stomach, mimicking Moran's fight moves from early. He was able to strike his fist against his jaw before Moran stumbled back and held up a hand in defense.

_That's for Irene, _is what he wanted to say, but he knew Moran couldn't know. He stepped over to the chair and picked up the notebook.

"Here's your notebook," he muttered.

Moran stared at him, stunned.

"My notebook?" Moran said. He let out a shallow laugh. "You mean you don't know? This notebook doesn't belong to me. It belongs to Mycroft Holmes."


	29. Chapter 29

_Sherlock wasn't able to say a word during the entire ride back to his brother's estate. Lestrade didn't question him as he drove, looking rather pale and exhausted himself. With his head rested in his arm, Sherlock leaned against the window, staring outside as the city passed them. People waltzed by on the sidewalks, completely unknown to the darkness they had just been saved from. _

_He shifted uncomfortably, still unable to get used to the suit he was wearing. His shoes were his brothers- and one size too big. He could only hope they would arrive before Mycroft came home. The last thing he wanted was his brother interrogating him about the trial._

"_Well," Lestrade stated as they pulled up to the estate._

_Sherlock stared at the house for a moment, wondering how little Lestrade would think of him if he begged him to not make him go inside._

"_Sherlock-" he noted the serious tone of Lestrade's voice, but he didn't take care enough to look his way. "Sherlock, I just wanted to say thanks. That took guts, getting up on the stand like that. I know you're not used to that kind of attention, but it really broke the case for us."_

_When Sherlock didn't reply Lestrade sighed and shut the car off. Sherlock hesitated before following Lestrade up to the door. Mycroft answered after the first knock, and his brother froze when he saw who he was standing with._

"_What did my brother do now?" Mycroft growled._

"_Actually, he just closed a case for us," Lestrade said, "he's been in trial all day. He never told you?"_

_Both men turned to him in surprise, but he simply shrugged._

"_I'm going to bed," Sherlock announced as he shoved passed his brother._

"_It's three in the afternoon!"_

_Sherlock ignored his brother as he charged towards the staircase. He stopped when he realized someone was standing in the sitting room. A young, blonde man, in a tailored suit and carrying a briefcase. The man smiled._

"_You must be Sherlock," he said._

_Irish accent. Interesting._

_Sherlock didn't reply._

"_Mycroft's told me about you," the man explained. "I work with him. William."_

_He stuck out his hand, but Sherlock didn't take it. _

"_I understand you're going through a hard time," William said, "I'm sorry to hear that."_

_Sherlock stared at him for another moment, wondering why this man knew about him and why he would even pretend to care. Instead of replying Sherlock turned around and charged up the staircase, not stopping until he slammed the door to the bedroom behind him._

* * *

><p>Sherlock had never felt so grateful to be able to leave a city. The night was too dark to see the edges of the city as the train sped out of Vienna, but for that Sherlock was grateful. He rested his head against the cool glass window. For hours he drifted in and out of consciousness, and each time woke up his eyes met the same thing: Moran, leaning back in his seat, and smoking.<p>

"I'm pretty sure those are banned on trains," Sherlock muttered after waking up for the third time.

They were in a private car, which felt too claustrophobic for Sherlock's liking. He lay with his feet propped up against the seat beside him. Moran kept a watchful eye on him at all times. He let out a breath of smoke and shrugged.

"You killed one of my men today," Moran announced.

This time, Sherlock shrugged. He refused to admit how much he was affected by the crime- how his restless sleep was because of the constant echoing of gunshots in his mind.

He looked up as Moran got to his feet and walked to his side of the car. Moran forced his feet off the seat and sat down beside him. Sherlock stiffened, immediately feeling uncomfortable with Moran being so close to him. But he didn't dare say anything.

"How did it make you feel?" Moran asked, his voice soft and cold.

Sherlock ignored him. He gazed, eyes-wide, at the floor beneath him. He could admit only to himself that the problem was, he didn't actually _feel_ anything. And that was a whole new horror in itself.

"Do you know what the funny thing about you is?" Moran said. He didn't wait for a reply. "You don't even know what you're fighting against. I hired Moriarty to watch you. That's all. The way he terrorized you- well, that's just Moriarty. And for that, I'm sorry."

"Sorry if I'm not too quick to forgive," Sherlock mumbled.

"You're simply a pawn in this game, Sherlock," Moran continued, "though I suppose you know this by now."

"Do we have to do the talking part?"

Moran looked away, annoyed.

"Did someone send you here?" Moran asked.

Sherlock looked at him, stunned; Moran sounded far too sincere.

"What?" Sherlock asked.

"Is someone forcing you to work with me?" Moran said. "Because I've been going through this over and over again in my head, and I just can't figure it out."

"I just want this to be over with."

He was only half-lying. Though he wished he didn't sound so helpless, most nights he wished for nothing more than a magical way to get his old life back. At this rate, if it took working for Moran for a few months, he would do it.

"Right," Moran said, laughing.

He slapped a hand on Sherlock's back; he jumped at the touch. The drugs were wearing down on his mind. He could feel the darkness closing in on him. A dizzying wave of nausea took over him, and he lowered his head to his hands, desperate to not throw up.

"Withdrawal settling in nicely, then?" Moran said. The line was all-too familiar.

Moran sighed and stood, walking back to his seat.

"It's going to be a long night, Sherlock Holmes."

"Where exactly are we going?" He asked.

But when he looked over, Moran was already asleep.

Sherlock drew in a few deep breaths, determined not to lose control. He couldn't run. He had to handle this, but as soon as they got off the plane in Cardiff everything became too real.

He searched his mind for an explanation as to how life came to this. How was he here, standing in a flat in Wales, with Moran- as though they were long-lost friends.

Of course, technically…

He shook his head, forcing the memories away.

"Why did you bring me here, again?" Sherlock asked.

"Do you have somewhere else to stay in Wales?" Moran shot; it was as though he read his mind. "Don't you want to know what you signed up for?"

He threw three folders on the coffee table. Sherlock took a seat on the couch and reached for the first folder. When he opened it he was shocked at who the file was for. It was a man he met long ago, after his first trial.

"You recognize him?" Moran said.

Sherlock didn't reply but instead began shifting through the papers.

"He's one of your brother's," Moran continued, "one of his trusted soldiers."

"What do you want with him?" Sherlock muttered.

"I want you to tell me everything you know about them."

"Who says I know anything about him?" Sherlock lied.

Moran slammed his fist against the wall, and Sherlock jumped.

"Let me rephrase that," Moran shot. "You're going to tell me what you know, since that's what you're here for."

"Fine," Sherlock sighed, "but I'm not sure why you're worried. All three of these men are idiots. I could take them out, easy."

Moran smirked.

"Then why don't you?" Sherlock stared at him. "Just joking, of course. You don't have the stomach to torture someone."

Sherlock hesitated; he knew protesting might actually get him in that situation. Over the past two years he had to remind himself that he didn't _want_ to do these things.

"If you want my help you're going to have to be clear on some things," Sherlock said.

Moran studied him before turning away, heading towards a table cluttered with drinks that was propped against the wall.

"What do you want?"

Sherlock thought quickly, considering the likelihood of Moran telling the truth. But as Moran began pouring himself a drink, Sherlock realized that maybe this was a situation to take advantage of.

"Tell me everything…" Sherlock swallowed, only half sure of how he wanted to finish his statement, "about my brother.

Moran stared at him, as though determining whether he was serious.

"Are you sure you want to know?" Moran asked. He took a sip of his drink before stepping towards him. "Once you know, you can never not know."

"I want to know."

He drew in a deep breath; he wasn't _really_ sure if he did.

"Well," Moran said, "take a seat. This is going to take a while."

"I'll stand."

Moran shrugged and took a seat on the sofa. He gazed at his glass for a minute before taking another sip of his drink. He closed his eyes, as though something pained him, and when he opened them again they were dark and unforgiving.

"When I was twenty-four years old I found myself in Sicily,"

Moran paused there, and from the look in his eye Sherlock knew the criminal was no longer in the present, but caught nearly fifteen years in the past.

"I fell in with a group of people who promised me a job at a shipping yard. I was a runaway, took off the moment I finished university, and I was broke. I accepted there offer. The first night on the job I realized all they intended for me to do was to keep guard. In their warehouse they had these large crates stacked everywhere, and they made me swear to never open them- just guard them. I figured it was some kind of drug ring, but I didn't care. They paid me well."

He drew in a long, slow, breath before pulling out a cigarette and a lighter. Sherlock didn't protest at the fumes filled the room; he would admit only to himself that even just breathing the smoke second hand soothed the cravings he buried deep within his mind.

"One night, one of the men came rushing in," Moran said. "I never saw them; as far as I knew I was the only one who was even in that warehouse. He demanded to know if someone came by asking questions. I told him no…I suppose I wasn't convincing enough because he roughed me up a bit, demanding to know everything that was going on. I realized someone must be on their trail, but I sincerely never saw anything more than a bunch of crates, collecting dust."

Moran's hand began trembling ever so slightly, and Sherlock couldn't help but wonder what he meant by "roughed up".

"The rest of the group stormed in then, the ringleader, Harris, was dragging someone into the warehouse. He said that we didn't have to worry because he caught the guy…said that we would question him first before getting rid of him. Quite frankly I didn't care for the way he kept saying 'we'."

Sherlock wasn't feeling very forgiving. Instead, a sick feeling was crawling in his stomach as he realized he recognized this story. He had been told it before.

"It was my brother," Sherlock realized softly, "the man, he was dragging in."

Moran looked up at him, and Sherlock was certain he was mistaking a look of _shame_ in his eyes.

"They tortured him for days," Moran whispered. "God…they interrogated him until he was sick. That's how he got away. I wasn't always on the bad side of the tracks, you know. I wasn't always so susceptible to violence and darkness and…"

"You're rambling," Sherlock shot.

He needed the sarcasm simply to push away the bile trickling up his throat. Moran curled his hands into fists but did not respond, choosing to continue his story instead.

"When he escaped he immediately shot two of the men. One almost got away, but I think he, I don't know, broke his neck or something. Then he rounded on me and the other poor bloke. We were cowards. Both young, and _hiding_. I had only been in a handful of fights in my life. I managed to get away. I was a bit spooked…I went back home for the first time in a year. When I got there, my mother was a mess. My sister had gone missing."

Sherlock swallowed; he had an ill feeling about where this was going.

"She simply_ disappeared_," Moran continued. "She was three years younger than me. Twenty-One. So young…and somehow, I knew it couldn't be a coincidence. I did some research into the shipping yard and the men who worked there. I ultimately went to London, where a contact promised me information. It was a setup. I was kidnapped and held and some kind of solitary confinement for days until someone came to speak with me. That someone was your brother."

Moran downed the last of his drink. He remained silent, and it was only then that Sherlock became aware of the sounds and smells around him. A crying child next door, the stench of smoke that was far deeper than Moran's cigarette, the wail of a police siren. It was too surreal to consider that this is where Moran _lived_, seemingly just as any other human.

He could sense that Moran wasn't willing to offer anymore, but Sherlock wasn't ready to stop asking questions.

"You made deals with my brother," Sherlock said, "and he with you. What kind of deals?"

Moran smirked.

"Your brother and I aren't too different. We both have friends in high places. No matter which side you're on, a friend in the right place is always useful. Your brother realized I was far more useful to him in that way. Despite his grief, he knew I had nothing more to do with that shipping yard than being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I suppose your brother told you everything of what happened in Sicily?"

Sherlock didn't reply.

"Looks like the Holmes brothers have a heart after all," Moran smirked.

So that's what it all came down to, he thought, _love_. It was a disturbing thought. He couldn't imagine Moran caring for a sister any more than he could his brother having a fiancé. He remained silent as Moran stood and poured himself another drink; judging by the empty glasses lining the table this was a frequent habit of his.

"I change my mind. You will go to Liverpool in the morning," Moran announced, "that's where he will be."

"But he will recognize me."

Moran stared at him.

"Exactly," he replied, "I'm sure you're tired of hiding. Go to him. Give him a fright."

Sherlock swallowed. He wasn't sure how to tell Moran that it wasn't that simple. He didn't feel comfortable with talking to Mycroft's people, not when he could never be sure who's on whose side.

"What exactly am I supposed to get out of him?" Sherlock asked.

"Don't you want to know why your brother is in possession of that notebook?" Moran asked. "I want to know whose it is. He's taken possession of it, but I'm wary to believe that even Mycroft Holmes has drifted towards terrorism. Find out who the notebook really belongs to. Be yourself, Mr. Holmes, for once. But most importantly, _get answers_."

Moran took a long sip of his drink before studying the glass carefully.

"And in case you're wondering," he continued, "I never saw my sister again."


	30. Chapter 30

_April 2013_

"You're dead."

Sherlock grinned.

He couldn't help it.

"And you're supposed to be in Liverpool," Sherlock replied, "I'll just ignore the fact that I found you in Nottingham."

"Does Mycroft know you're alive?" William said. "That bastard."

Sherlock laughed. William's eyes were wide, but he remained perfectly still. He was tied to a chair in the back of a shop where he tracked William down.

"What did you do to the shopkeeper?" William demanded.

Taking a step closer to William, Sherlock made sure the gloves he was wearing were secure.

"First of all," Sherlock said, "I ask the questions. Secondly, I let him go. I just needed to borrow the place for a while."

He took a piece of masking tape out of his pocket as he approached William. The man's pupils dilated in the slightest; Sherlock smirked at the sight.

"Who are you working for?" William demanded. Panic rose slightly in his voice as he neared him. William did his best to keep control, but he was failing miserably. "You wouldn't do this alone. Is Mycroft helping you?"

He roared with laughter and raised the hand holding his gun to his forehead, resting it there for a moment. When he looked up next he knew he had to hold it together. At last he raised his head, forcing himself to meet William's eyes.

"I'm sure you know all about the threats to attack Thames House next year."

He figured it best to start out strong, like ripping off a Band-Aid. Williams' eyes widened with panic- and recognition. Sherlock instantly knew the man knew exactly when he was talking about.

"Planning this far in advance, that's just not casual threats," he continued. He began to pace the room; he knew it made William nervous, as his frozen eyes followed Sherlock back and forth, back and forth. "That's terrorism. Let's just put that word out there for a moment. _Terrorism._ But of course you wouldn't know about that would you, working for my brother?"

William shook his head frantically, but Sherlock ignored him and continued:

"Did you know Daniel Kent?" He asked. Williams' eyes widened once again. "Of course you did. You worked with him. You worked with him to play my brother."

"No-"

"Do you know how I know this?" Sherlock continued.

He stormed towards William and knelt down in front of him, forcing their eyes to meet.

"I know you."

He recognized William from far more than a chance meeting when he was young. He'd caught the man out of the corner of his eye more than once in his lifetime.

"You see, this was going to be a simple interrogation. I ask, you answer, we both move on with your lives. But you have been making a fool of my brother for a decade, and while normally I would encourage anyone to make a fool of my brother, I don't take the matter of terrorism lightly."

He swung his fist around, sending his knuckles swiping against William's eye. William breathed heavily, and Sherlock gave him a moment to recover before repeating the action with his other fist.

When he was done he took a step back, admiring the black bruises forming around William's eyes. Sherlock circled around the man panting in the chair and made sure the ropes were tied as tightly as possible around him.

"Neither one of us is leaving here until I know everything there is to know about this notebook," Sherlock said as he took the book out of his jacket.

William opened his mouth to say something, but Sherlock stopped him by sending his fist crashing against his jaw.

"I'm not the biggest fan of my brother right now," Sherlock admitted, "but you know who I really don't like? Traitors."

* * *

><p>Sherlock was grateful to find the flat was empty when he returned five hours later. He was out of breath, and thoughts raced so quickly in his mind he felt as though he might burst. As he hurried into his bedroom he tore the glove away from his hand, revealing a bloody fist. The interrogation had taken a toll on him as well as William- his right arm was stiff, his fingers fragile and tingling. He ran into the bathroom where he immediately turned on the hot water and ran his hand underneath it. Sherlock grabbed a towel and wrapped it around his knuckles before returning to the room.<p>

The bedroom was tiny, but it was in better condition than the hotel room he called home for the past couple of months. The flat was freezing; he doubted Moran was concerned with keeping up with utilities. He shivered and wrapped his jacket closer around him.

Sherlock fell to the edge of the bed, exhausted. His mind was reeling with all the information he learned. William was a coward who spilled everything he could have ever wanted to know. Now it was time to decide what he would reveal to Moran.

He knew the answer could only be nothing.

When Sherlock opened his eyes they landed on a loose floorboard beneath the bed.

_Strange._

He hadn't noticed it before. Kneeling down, he forced the piece of wood away from the floor, revealing a tiny hole which held a mobile phone.

A very familiar mobile phone.

Sherlock grabbed Irene's old camera phone immediately. He turned it on and was relieved to see there was still power in it. The password was still the same, he knew she must have left it that way- she must have left the phone there for him.

He fell back to the bed, letting his body relax into the mattress as he held the phone above him. His breathing was shallow and silent. He knew the phone was the key to Irene's life. There must be something on it she wanted him to know.

His first instinct was to turn to the pictures file. The folders were labeled by letter. He flipped through the options, and he was fascinated to find a single file listed in the "H" folder. He clicked on the link to open the folders.

He sat up immediately. He paled, and he was certain his heart stopped beating.

The pictures were of his brother.

They were very_ intimate_ pictures of his brother.

"I'm going to be sick," Sherlock whispered.

He forced the bile that was rising in his throat down.

At that moment he heard the front door open, and he quickly placed the mobile back into its hiding place. He checked his hand again and was relieved to see that the bleeding had stopped. He knew Moran would ask.

A knock at the door. Sherlock didn't answer, but Moran pushed the door open anyway. They stared at each other for a moment, before Moran announced:

"You look like shit."

Sherlock nodded but did not reply. His eyes fell on the bag of take-away in Moran's hand, and he realized then that he was hungry.

They sat in silence, with Moran watching Sherlock's every move as he dug into the plate of Chinese food before him. The food was terrible, but he hardly noticed.

"Interrogation really makes you work up an appetite," Moran commented. He must have noticed his hand. "There's ice in the freezer, you know."

Sherlock didn't reply. He continued eating until the plate was empty; Moran only stared at him. As he sat the fork down he remained silent, waiting for Moran to offer to speak up.

"What did you find out?"

Sherlock didn't answer right away, contemplating what he should say.

* * *

><p><em>London- the same day, 2013<em>

The knock on his door didn't come until well after one AM. Mycroft stood from where he spent the afternoon waiting on the sofa.

He froze as soon as he opened the door.

William was in much worse shape than he expected. His friend gave him a half-smile, but traces of exhaustion ran from his black eyes to his bleeding lip. His jacket was torn at the shoulder; blood stained the shirt beneath it.

"Your brother's a bloody good interrogator," William said.

Mycroft returned the smile, half-heartedly. He opened the door to let him in and led him into the kitchen. William accepted the towel he was handed and began to dab at the blood on his face.

"So he really did it?" Mycroft said.

He sighed and ran his hands over his face as he leaned against the counter. William took a seat at the table and lowered his head to his hands. Even if it was all a set-up, nothing could hide the real pain he was in.

"Yes," William replied, "and gladly. He was smiling."

"That's what I was afraid of."

"In his defense, I think he was fighting on your behalf," William explained. "He was convinced I betrayed you."

"I'm flattered," Mycroft muttered. He remained quiet for a moment as he made William a cup of tea. "Any sense of who he could be working for?"

William closed his eyes as he took a long sip of tea; he glanced at Mycroft.

"You're so sure he's working _for_ someone and not _with_?"

"Why would my brother be working with anyone?" Mycroft said. "He doesn't even have the resources-"

"He was very _emotional_," William said, "which is unusual for Sherlock."

Mycroft considered his words as he sat down across from him and rested his chin to his fingertips.

"William, you've been following my brother for nearly ten years," Mycroft said. "What do you think, honestly?"

William sighed before raising his eyes to meet him, and Mycroft knew he was now being sincere.

"I _think_ your brother's tired," William admitted. "I think he's _done_ with being dead. Whoever it is he's working for or with, it's as a last resort."

"Any ideas on where he traveled from?"

"A train ticket from Cardiff was sticking out of his coat pocket," William said.

"Cardiff…"

He swallowed and closed his eyes, wishing that he had somehow imagined hearing that.

"Yes. I'm afraid so."

"But _why_…how…why," he couldn't even finish his thought.

The thought of Sherlock having anything more to do with Moran sickened him. The thought that Sherlock was working with him and perhaps actually believed that- forever reason- Moran had good intentions in mind- was sickening.

"Mycroft," William began, low and coldly, "everything you've told me about you and Moran. Is it the truth?"

Mycroft stared at him, completely offended.

"Of course it's true!" He exclaimed. "How dare-"

"Okay, okay," William said, holding up his hands in defense. "When was the last time you spoke with Moran?"

"I told you!" Mycroft shot. "He visited me in my home. He was in my room."

"So besides…what's going on here," William said, obviously choosing his words carefully as to not offend him again. "Are there any other unsolved issues between you and Moran?"

Mycroft's eyes fell closed as he thought back, fifteen years ago, to that horrible night. The night that would change Moran's life forever and, perhaps, make him who he came to be-

"No," he lied.

He suddenly felt very ill.

"How could my brother fall into the hands of Moran?" Mycroft wondered out loud. "How could he be so _stupid_?"

A respectful silence fell between them. The thought that Sherlock was, right now, possibly under Moran's roof was more than disturbing. The thought that Sherlock could be talking to Moran, right now, giving him false information, was frightening.

And yet it was one of those moments where he couldn't help but to wonder how had this all happened.

When he opened his eyes and looked at William, the man who was supposed to be Sherlock's walking security system, he lost it.

"I think you should leave now," Mycroft stated softly.

"What?"

He wasn't surprised to hear the shock in William's voice.

"You were hired to keep my brother _safe_," Mycroft shot. "Yet he fell into the hands of Moriarty, he faked his own death, he's been running around god knows where in Europe, and now he could be working for Sebastian Moran so _get out_!"

He hadn't screamed so loudly since one of his last shouting matches with Sherlock. William's eyes widened and then hardened with anger.

"I've been on your side for ten years!" William exclaimed. "You can't just _fire_ me!"

"I can, and I will," Mycroft said, "and I swear that if I find out that Moran hurt him in the slightest-"

"Your brother disappeared off the face of the planet!" William cried. "I'm sorry, I did what I could. He's in over his head, Mycroft. You've either got to trust that he'll get himself out or send in the cavalry."

"Get out!"

Mycroft grabbed him by the arm and forced him to stand. He made sure their eyes met. Most of his anger was being fueled by feeling so stupid for admitting everything to William, for letting him in on this huge secret and asking him for his help. He should have known he wouldn't be able to succeed.

"You've achieved nothing," Mycroft said, "accept the risk of making this all worse. I'll figure out how to deal with Moran. I don't want you to be a part of this."

"Mycroft, I swear to you, I've always cared about your brother," William pleaded. "Who else are you going to turn to? After Kent-"

"How do I know that I can trust you, after that?"

Mycroft fell silent, immediately regretting his words. The thought had been creeping around in the back of his mind since Sherlock's revelation about Kent. He forced the thought away whenever it emerged, but at times like this he had to remind himself that anything was possible.

"I'm sorry," Mycroft offered, honestly, "but I need to do this on my own."

William shook his head. As Mycroft noted his injuries guilt rose inside him, but he forced the feeling away.

"Fine," William shot, "this is between you and Moran, anyway. It needs to end, Mycroft."

With that William stormed out of the kitchen. Mycroft closed his eyes when he heard the front door slam. He told himself that he was doing the right thing. Sherlock was out of control, and he couldn't risk any variables like William.

Still, he couldn't help but to think of all the times William was able to help him stop Sherlock from all those _danger nights_. The number of times he was able to divert Moriarty, despite how the end game turned out.

But William was right about one thing.

This had to end.

* * *

><p><em>2014<em>

Mycroft focused on his breathing as he stared at his brother. They were inside Thames House, on one of the bottom floors and inside one of the many record-keeping rooms. They were in an open room that separated the corridor from the room of files. Mycroft knew why Sherlock brought him down here: it was quiet, and there was no chance in hell someone would accidently wonder in on them at this time a night.

Sherlock had him tied to one of the beams in the centre of the room. He cooperated all throughout being transported inside the building. He thought perhaps giving his brother some time, and some space, might shed some light one what was going on.

The gun was still trained on him, but Sherlock's arm was relaxed, as though he had forgotten he was holding the weapon. He couldn't get over how much_ older_ Sherlock looked.

"Sherlock, please," he whispered. "Just tell me what's going on. I can help you-"

"You can make this a lot easier on yourself if you just sit back and listen, Mye."

He also couldn't get over the fact that Sherlock kept using his old childhood nickname. It was somehow disturbing.

"But you're not telling me anything!"

"Patience."

The smallest of smiles crept from Sherlock's lips. His brother's eyes darted towards the door and back- quickly, but not quickly enough.

Sherlock was waiting on someone.

Irene had long-since left, and it didn't seem like she would be coming back their way. He could detect the slightest hint of worry in Sherlock's eyes, and it still shocked him to realize how concerned he was for the woman.

But suddenly his brother's eyes faded into fear, and he wouldn't tear them away from the door. His hands shook slightly, as though his mind was giving his body an order that it wouldn't follow.

"When he gets here, you have to be quiet," Sherlock said, "you have to swear to me- don't say anything stupid. No sarcasm. Don't yell at him, don't provoke him."

"Charming words of advice."

A chill went down his spine as the voice of Sebastian Moran bounced off the walls. His head swirled towards the door, where the shadow of Moran grew closer and closer. He couldn't help but to notice that the closer he got, the more nervous Sherlock became.

When he stepped into the light a wicked grin spread across Moran's face. Suddenly the room felt ten degrees cooler. His brother paled, and Mycroft froze at the sight of Moran. He hadn't seen him in so long, but he had physically changed so much. Like his brother, Moran was much thinner now. His skin was white, his hair cut into short curls. A familiar scar still ran across his cheek, and old white battle wounds decorated his knuckles.

"And do you have any words of advice for your brother, Mycroft?"

Both he and Sherlock's faces contorted into confusion, but before Mycroft could even dare to say anything Moran's hand reached out. Mycroft noticed the gun in his hands just before it flew through the air and crashed into his brother's skull. Sherlock fell to the ground like a leaf torn from a clover.

His heart stopped beating. Instinctively, he pushed himself further back against the beam, but his tied hands prevented him from moving. Moran looked down at the unconscious form of his brother, smirked, and muttered to himself:

"Idiot."

* * *

><p>Author's Note: Let me know if this is making any kind of sense. 2014 is really supposed to be the present- as Sherlock was originally telling this part of the story to Mycroft. It just took a bit longer than intended. We're getting somewhere though, I promise!<p> 


	31. Chapter 31

_2014_

The fiery pain that greeted him as he came to was so nauseating that he almost passed out again. He breathed through his nose deeply; a wretched cough escaped him as he exhaled.

To test his strength he tried to move, but he wasn't surprised to find his hands were bound. Sherlock blinked as he tried to see through the dim shadows.

"You weren't in eastern Europe."

He ignored Mycroft's taunting as he concentrated on his breathing. The world was slowly coming back into focused, and he could see that he was strapped to the same beam he tied Mycroft too earlier. His wrist was bound so tightly to the narrow beam that his arm was already growing numb.

"There are more of you here, aren't there?" Mycroft continued.

Sherlock groaned, not amused by his brother's interrogation.

"It's not just you and Ms. Adler, your accent…"

He realized how strained his brother's voice was. When he looked over, he was startled to see a new series of bruises decorating his face.

"Your face…" Sherlock said, struggling to speak himself.

"Yes," Mycroft said, with a forced smile, "I wasn't too keen on him capturing you…I may have attempted to kick him a few times. It didn't work, if you were wondering."

Sherlock let out a cynical laugh, finding this all too ironic. _How_ had he not seen this coming?

"Is that a yes, then?" Mycroft asked. "There are more of you."

He swallowed nervously as he remembered Irene, who would be completely oblivious to his being captured. That was when his mind started racing with the horrid thought that maybe she had been captured too.

"Irene's taking care of them," he admitted.

He hoped.

"_Irene_," Mycroft mocked. "Of course. This is about a woman."

"Shut up, I'm trying to think!"

Resting his head against his bonded arm, Sherlock closed his eyes and let himself drift away for a moment.

"Are you alright?"

He lifted his head a little at the sudden outburst of concern. Guilt ridden and exhausted, Sherlock replied:

"I'm sorry." He let out a deep breath.

"You're sorry that you got caught?"

"No!" Sherlock exclaimed. "God, Mycroft…do you honestly think I'm _working with Sebastian Moran_?"

"Frankly, I'm not sure what to think," Mycroft said, "but in the past twenty-four hours I've seen you rob a bank, fake your death, kidnap me, and break into Thames House."

"Technically, I used your security clearance-"

"I _knew_, Sherlock."

He immediately fell silent, and both brothers look at each other. When their eyes met Sherlock was hit with a wave of dejavu. He hadn't realized until that moment just how long it had been since he last saw his brother, and suddenly he felt a yearning for nothing but this to all be over with. He was _so close_; he could feel it. But it was just that kind of desperation that was getting him into trouble.

"You knew what?" He asked quietly.

"I knew you were working with Moran," Mycroft admitted. He offered him a sad smile. "You tortured your own body guard."

"Yes, well maybe I didn't want a body guard."

Mycroft didn't reply. As everything sank in he felt pathetic. Why had he assumed Mycroft didn't know what was going on? Of course it would never be that easy to slip out of his brother's life.

"The people from Austria, they're here, aren't they?" Mycroft asked, his voice so small, as though he already knew his answer.

Sherlock nodded, and his stomach turned into nauseating knots.

"Irene was supposed to deal with them, but if they find her- if Moran finds her…god, Mycroft, they'll kill her."

He closed his eyes, determined to not let the idea seem real.

"Why is she with you and not them?" Mycroft said. "I thought you said she stayed behind."

Sherlock pursed his lips. A horrible sense of dread filled him as he knew he what he would have to relive while telling the next part of the story.

"She came after me," he admitted. "Once I was in Cardiff with Moran, the men from Austria, they kept a close eye on me. They were essentially holding Irene hostage, but she got away to find me."

"Why?"

He looked towards his brother, meeting his eyes once again, hoping that he could somehow understand what he was going through.

"She needed to warn me."

* * *

><p><em>June 2013<em>

Sherlock browsed the contents of the phone for the hundredth time, hoping that somehow he missed something. He studied each of the photos, searching for clues- clues to what, he wasn't sure. But he knew Irene wouldn't just leave the phone like that. It would be too much of a risk.

Moran drifted in and out of the flat without much of a word. Sherlock stayed because it meant having Moran right there under his nose…it meant being able to play the cards his way. Though the criminal never told him directly what it was he did, Sherlock knew what was going on: Moran was rounding up the last of his troops. From recollections of Mycroft's notes, Sherlock knew Moran still had a few contacts in Russia. He was certain he had cleared America and Eastern Europe with anything that had to do with Moran.

After interrogating William, Moran asked nothing more of him. In fact, Sherlock was beginning to think Moran forgot he was even there.

Until the front door slammed, followed soon by a pounding on his own door.

"Sherlock!" Moran exclaimed. "Holmes!"

Sherlock leapt off the bed, hid the mobile, and scurried to open the door. Moran burst into his room as soon as the door was unlocked. His hands were trembling as they ran through his unkempt hear. A long trench coat hid his small frame, despite the warm weather outside. Judging by the food stains on his collar and the state of his shoes, Sherlock estimated he had spent the last three days in Japan.

"Do you have anything?" Moran demanded.

Sherlock simply stared at Moran as he raced around the room, throwing open every drawer and tearing the sheets off the bed. Subconsciously, he took a step towards the loose floorboard where the mobile was hidden.

"Any what?" He asked.

"Drugs!" Moran cried. "Something, just…"

His hands clawed at his face frantically, as though he wished to wipe his skin away.

"I don't have anything."

He was horrified just at the suggestion. Did Moran honestly think-?

He was slammed against the wall before he could say anything else; Moran was just inches away from his face as he spoke:

"You're lying to me!"

"You're insane!"

Sherlock bit his lip, regretting speaking up as soon as the words left his mouth. He didn't feel too guilty a second later, when a hand slapped against his face, _hard_.

"You know, I don't know why I didn't just let Moriarty to kill you in the first place," Moran hissed. "It would have saved the world from an awful lot of trouble."

Sherlock glared at him, unsure what he should say. It was obvious that Moran was high as a kite, probably not even the slightest bit aware of what he was doing. Whatever happened in Japan, it didn't go well. Slowly, a wicked grin crossed his face.

"Doesn't matter anyway," Moran retorted, a little too calmly, "we're all about to die."

"What?"

Moran simply laughed. When he finally released his hold on him, Sherlock couldn't help but to let out a sigh of relief. Yet his stomach still twisted into knots as he wondered what Moran meant.

"Oh yes, they're coming for me," Moran replied, in a sing-song voice. Sherlock nearly choked at the foul whiff of alcohol that came from his mouth. "And they'll come for you too. They'll kill us both."

"What are you talking about?" Sherlock demanded, fighting to stay calm.

Moran withdrew a knife; Sherlock's heart stopped as he brought it closer and closer to his neck.

"Better arm yourself," Moran whispered.

"You're mad."

Sherlock's voice was equally as silent. He wished more than ever at that moment that he never agreed to go to Austria, that he never agreed to get mixed up in any of this.

His heart leapt when there was a pounding at the front door for the second time that night. Moran grinned.

"They're here."

At that moment, the door bursts open. Two Japanese men stormed inside, followed by another man.

"You're really terrible at the whole hiding bit," the man smirked.

London accent. That was interesting…

Sherlock didn't have long to take in what was going on before one of the Japanese men had him pinned against the wall.

"Again?" Sherlock shot. "Really?"

He coughed as he fought for breath. He faintly heard the sound of Moran crying out in pain before the overwhelming smell of chloroform came over him, and he blacked out.

His first realization was that he couldn't see. He coughed a few times, still struggling to breathe as he fought his way back to reality. It took him a few moments to realize that the reason he couldn't see was because it was dark. Sherlock tried to let out the breath he was holding, but he found himself gagged.

He panicked as he realized his hands were bound behind his back as well. He could feel some kind of fabric behind him, signaling that he had been tossed inside the bedroom closet.

Sherlock closed his eyes once more, forcing himself to calm down. He had nothing to do but wait.

As the world closed in around him, he could still faintly hear sirens go off at the nearby hospital. Cardiff still moved around him, and he was reminded that he wasn't too far from home. Just a couple of hours away was his brother, oblivious to the trouble he got himself into. There was John, completely unaware that he was even alive. And there was Lestrade, who had always only trusted him.

He still wondered how he was able to leave that life behind.

He drifted in and out of consciousness for what seemed like hours. Sunlight peeped through the crack beneath the closet door, and he realized he had been locked in here all night. It was odd, he thought, that he hadn't heard a sound from Moran. No sounds of struggle or even a scream…

As though reading his mind, Moran let out an ear-piercing cry, so pained and violent it was obvious that he had been restraining himself from reacting to the interrogation for hours.

But just like that, the flat fell silent. There was some shuffling from outside, and at last the door to the closet opened.

Sherlock squinted as a burst of sunlight interrupted the darkness. The same Japanese man who attacked him grabbed him by the arm and dragged him out to the main room. Moran was passed out on the floor; judging by the ugly bruise forming on his arm, he had been drugged.

He was forced to spin around before being shoved into one of the kitchen chairs. His hands were still tied behind his back; his wrists burned against the rope. The Japanese man stood before him, arms crossed. He studied him for a minute, and Sherlock began to wonder if he knew who he was.

Then the man took out a phone.

Irene's phone.

He held it in front of his face, displaying one of the pictures of Mycroft.

"This is your brother?" He stated.

Sherlock didn't respond. He felt too weak to even nod. The Japanese man sighed and pocketed the phone. He reached for a glass of water.

"Thirsty, yes?"

His eyes must have lit up at the hint of having something to quench his dry throat, as the man smirked. The water was thrown into his face.

"I hate this man." Sherlock could only assume he was talking about Mycroft; he made a mental note to blame his brother for this later. "But that is not why I'm here. _This _man, Sebastian Moran, you work for him now?"

Sherlock glanced to the unconscious man on the floor, wondering what he should do. There was no way to tell which side these men were on, judging by the state Moran was left in and the reaction to finding out who his brother was.

He wasn't given a chance to answer. His head snapped to the side with a punch to the face. The Japanese man leaned closer as Sherlock breathed heavily through his nose.

"Do you think this is a game, Mr. Holmes?" The man shot. "Do you have any idea what kind of enemies Mr. Moran has?"

He stared at him for a second longer before taking a step back, giving Sherlock some much-welcomed space. A hint of sympathy flashed in his eyes, and the Japanese man reached forward and removed the gag.

Frantic gasps for breaths, mixed with coughs, filled the room as he tried to regain his senses.

"I won't ask how Mycroft Holmes' brother got mixed in with this," the man stated, much more calmly. "I work undercover with the Japanese government. I investigate terrorist threats, and I've been working recently with your brother on a threat against Thames House. Our evidence traced us right to this flat, to Sebastian Moran." He took something out of his coat- the notebook. "And this notebook. Now, Mr. Holmes, surely you understand the severity of the situation you are in. Even your brother would have a hard time getting you out of this one. You-"

Suddenly the man gasped as something pulled him down to the floor. Sherlock's eyes widened as he realized Moran was awake, and his hands were wrapped around the man's ankles. With one swift movement Moran drew his knife, just as he had earlier, and-

Sherlock closed his eyes before he could witness what he knew was about to happen. When he opened him again the fiery eyes of Moran glared back at him.

"Do you know who he was?" Sherlock exclaimed.

"Do you?"

Moran knelt down next to the body and lowered the man's collar, revealing a tattoo in Japanese writing.

"He lied to you. He's from a Japanese gang," Moran explained. "And he's not alone."

Pocketing the knife, Moran made towards the door. Sherlock's heart began pounding with panic as he realized Moran intended to leave him there.

"Wait!" He hated how desperate he sounded. Moran swirled around, amused. "I'll help you."

Moran stared at him for a moment, and Sherlock knew he wasn't taking him seriously.

"Help me?" Moran repeated.

Sherlock nodded.

"Thames House," he explained, "it's _your_ plan. He might be Japanese gang, but he was right about that, wasn't he? That's your endgame. You've been chasing after those who are after you and rounding up the final troops you have left. For whatever reason, this is your final plan."

"And you wish to help me with this alleged plan?"

Sherlock nodded again, desperately. He tried to convince himself that this wasn't a terrible idea- after all, he could still keep a careful eye on Moran, all while finding out a way to stop him.

Moran stepped towards him, knife drawn. Sherlock's breath was caught in his throat until Moran sliced through the rope bounding his hands. He let out a sigh of relief.

"Thanks," Sherlock whispered.

"They are my plans. I won't give you details…but someone tried to thwart them. This goes far deeper than you could ever imagine." Sherlock nodded, though he truthfully did not know what to think. All that ran through his mind was _I'm making deals with a terrorist_. "You'll do as I say. Everything. Or I will kill you."

Sherlock swallowed nervously before offering him a final nod of acknowledgement.

"Then let's go," Moran said, "they have this place rigged."

Looking around, Sherlock notice for the first time the explosives tied beneath the kitchen table and around the floor. He felt pathetic, for not noticing this sooner. He was losing his edge.

Moran led him out of the flat; Sherlock didn't bother questioning him about what he planned to do with the body. A shiver raced down his spine as they stepped into the empty hallway. The world seemed far too silent.

"There are other people living here," Sherlock pointed out.

He knew the reminder would be useless.

"I don't care."

They headed towards the stairs, but Moran stopped suddenly, holding a hand out in front of him to keep him from going any further. Another Japanese man was just entering the hallway.

"Run!" Moran instructed.

Sherlock didn't hesitate to obey as he took off after Moran towards the other end of the hallway. When they reached the stairwell Sherlock panicked when he saw the third man- the British man- on the steps below him. The man grinned, and Sherlock's eyes widened before he followed Moran up the stairs, all the way to the roof.

As they burst outside a horrifying sense of dejavu overwhelmed him. He struggled to breathe as the world spun. _So dizzy…_

"Mr. Holmes," a British voice taunted.

Sherlock swirled around to see the man approaching him, gun drawn at his side. He was vaguely aware of Moran standing beside him, breathing heavily, obviously consumed with panic.

"Fancy meeting you here," the man continued, "seeing as you're supposed to be dead and all. That can easily be fixed. Judging by the fact that you're mingling with terrorists, I'd deem you not worth keeping around anymore. Wouldn't your brother just be so proud?"

He wanted to defend himself. He wanted to point out that he was doing all of this so that he could eventually stop said act from happening. But he couldn't; not in front of Moran.

The British man's eyes flashed towards Moran at that very moment.

"And _you_," he spat.

He raised his gun, and Sherlock gasped as he was suddenly pulled to the side. Moran was using him as a human shield.

The man only laughed.

"That's cute," he smirked. "Do you see the type you've fallen in with, Mr. Holmes? _Cowards_."

He couldn't help but to consider how odd Moran's behavior was…but he knew it was all in the influence of the drugs. He was suddenly thrown to the side, and Moran fled. Gunshots filled the air, and Sherlock had to refrain from the desire to cover his ears as the piercing sound cracked through the air.

The other two men suddenly appeared on the roof. Sherlock's eyes darted around, searching for a way out. Moran was being chased back into the building by the British man, and the two Japanese men were closing in on the distance between them. Sherlock took a subconscious step back but froze as he glanced over the side of the building.

He nearly became sick as the memory of his fall from St. Bart's returned to him. He could feel the ground rushing towards his face, hear the crack of his skull against the pavement, the screams of pedestrians-

He drew in a deep breath, forcing himself to regain his senses. He was on the verge of completely losing his mind. He had to focus. Closing his eyes for a moment, he searched for the remainder of the strength in his body. When he opened him again he reached out, kicking the gun away from one of the attackers.

The other man grabbed him by the foot and flipped him over. A sharp current charged through him as his back slammed against the pavement. He kicked up again, striking the second attacker in the ribs. Somehow, he managed to get to his feet again, but the first man recovered far too quickly.

His knuckles graced his jaw, sending his head snapping to the side for the second time that day. He was grabbed by the shoulders and forced down, but Sherlock swung out with his fist. The satisfying crack of the man's bones only brought him momentary relief before he was swung around once again.

Suddenly he found himself far too close to the edge. Sherlock stared the first attacker in the eye, begging him, he realized, for mercy.

He could only recall doing so few times in his life. There was barely enough room left on the roof for his trainers to maintain his balance. He slipped momentarily; a loud gasp trailed off with the wind, and the men laughed.

Gunshots rattled the air, and both men fell before him. Sherlock looked up, breathing hard as he searched for his savior.

He never felt so relieved than when he saw Irene Adler walking towards him at that moment. They stared at each other, allowing him a chance to examine every inch of her and realize that she seemed perfectly alright, before she extended a hand to him. He reached out and accepted her help as she pulled him off the ledge.

Somehow, they ended up with their foreheads rested together, standing only inches apart in a cloud of fumes.

Somehow, their lips found one another's. She drew him in closer, her hand falling to the small of his back. He shuddered as she deepened the kiss, letting him know that this was _actually real_.

She slipped away and bit her lip. Her eyes trailed up to meet his, waiting desperately for his response.

But then she smiled.

"You're allowed to breathe now," she whispered.

He nodded and obeyed, letting out a shaky breath.

"We've got to go, there are others," she said. She gave his arm a comforting squeeze. "They have the place rigged from top to bottom. Anabeth's inside getting everyone out."

"She's here?"

He wasn't sure why, but the idea of knowing Abrams was there with them gave him even more of a sense of relief. Irene nodded.

"I'll explain, but we have to go. Now."

Sherlock nodded and stepped back. He felt like he could finally breathe easily again as he put distance between he and Irene. Before taking off he knelt down and extracted the camera phone from the pockets of the man who attacked him. He stared at the bodies for a moment.

"Thank you," he whispered, without looking at her.

"Don't thank me yet."

She grabbed his hand, and they broke into a run. She led him back inside and down eight flights of stairs. He could have been imagining things, but he swore he could hear popping sounds as the fuses came close to explosion. Just as they burst through the lobby doors and hit the pavement outside a catastrophic bang exploded behind them, sending them crashing to the ground.

He collapsed on top of her, shielding her with her body. They rested there as the ashes of the building fell around them. The world turned to dust as he let out a series of coughs, suddenly unable to breathe again.

Somewhere through the darkness of the smoke they broke apart, and her hand found his. She led him away from the scene, away from the confused, displaced residents and passerby, and down a nearby alleyway. They looked out of placed with their smoke-covered clothes and he, with his new collection of cuts and bruises.

They wondered through the back streets of the cities in silence, their hands never parting. At last Irene stopped at a certain alley, behind a marketplace. Sherlock tense as a figure emerged from behind a dumpster.

"He's alright," Irene announced.

"Thank god."

Abrams smiled as she emerged from the shadows clinging to the wall. Her blonde hair was drench with smoke, her trouser torn, and her t-shirt ripped to shreds at the shoulder.

He wasn't quite sure why he was so relieved to see her, but she certainly looked just as relieved to see him. She stepped up to him and reached up to him with a hand. He stared at her for a moment, unsure of what was happening until she wiped at something at his face- pulling back her hand, she revealed the smudge of lipstick, and smirked.

"It's good to see you," she stated quietly.

"Yeah, you too," he admitted. "How's Austria?"

She let out a cold laugh, and he felt guilty for asking.

"I was sent to collect information from you," she said, "needless to say, I think I have all I need."

Sherlock's eyes trailed to Irene. When she offered him a small smile he suddenly froze; he wasn't sure why he felt so nauseated.

"And why are you here?"

"You didn't seem so offended to see me ten minutes ago," she teased.

"I'm only concerned, _sweetie_, because they used you against me. And now you're here."

Irene simply shrugged.

"I got out of it."

"How?" He demanded.

She stared at him, her eyes twinkling.

"The way I always get out of things."

The mocking tone in her voice made him unsure if he should believe her or not; yet a sickening filling still pulled at his insides.

Abrams rolled her eyes.

"Moran escaped," she admitted, "I'm sure he'll be looking for you soon."

Her eyes fell on Sherlock, ridden with guilt. Sherlock nodded.

"It's fine," he offered, honestly. "It's a good plan. I can divert his plans, stop this from becoming real."

"It is real," Irene warned, "and you shouldn't have anything to do with it. This is why we have Mycroft."

"Mycroft is not going to be involved in this!"

"And yet, he already is."

All three of them swirled around at the sound of Moran's voice. His footsteps echoed against the alley walls as he stepped towards them, a smile plastered against his smoke-covered face.

"Nice job with the Japanese men, Ms. Adler," he said, "just another crime my name is not attached to. Funny, how I always seem to get my way."

Sherlock took a step forward, but Abrams reached out to stop him. Moran laughed.

"You must not know what to do with yourself!" Moran said. "Surrounded by all these women."

Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Abrams' hand was rested on the gun at her side. He was desperate to warn her, knowing this couldn't end well, but he knew he couldn't speak up. He took a subconscious step towards her, for her own protection.

"But now we have a problem, because we've made certain people a bit more angry," Moran, "also, we've drawn more attention to myself, which is never good." He glanced between Irene and Abrams. "I suppose you two are due to send word to your boss soon." Neither woman responded; a cruel smile was etched into his face. The sick feeling in his stomach deepened. "Why don't you call him now? Tell him I said hello."

Two gunshots cracked through the air as bullets rushed by him. Someone gasped in pain, and Sherlock's world faded around him as he instantly fell beside Abrams.

Her terrified eyes landed on him immediately. Irene was by her side as well, Moran long forgotten.

"Stop," he ordered, when he noticed her panicking, "just breathe-"

She reached up, grabbing at his shirt.

"Anabeth," he breathed; he wasn't sure if he had ever addressed her by her first name.

"Please," she whispered.

"You're fine."

Irene's words darted towards him, filled with worry. He knew they were empty words. He knew he was lying as he watched as her shirt turned a sickly red from blood.

"My sister," she gasped, "in Berlin-"

"Stop talking!" He demanded as he began applying pressure to the wound. Tears tugged at the corners of his eyes; he knew the act was useless.

"I'm sorry…"

Her words were desperately inaudible now. He grabbed her arms, shaking her; he nearly vomited as he realized how stiff and cold she was already growing.

"You're fine," he lied again.

A soft smile appeared against her grey face.

"I think this is the very definition of Stockholm Syndrome."

Suddenly her eyes froze, as did his heart.

"Sherlock-" Irene whispered.

He was shaking. He was shaking so badly that he could hardly steady himself as he got to his feet. Anger pounded through him as he turned around and saw Moran leaning casually against the alley wall, examining the smoke stains on his fingers.

"I'll kill him," he warned, his voice low and trembling.

He reached for the gun that had fallen beside Abrams.

"Sherlock, no!"

"Sherlock, no!" Moran mocked.

Moran turned toward them, his fingers tapping against the gun at his side.

"Why didn't I see it before?" Moran stated. His eyes were blood red; his foot tapped madly against the ground. "You two, the perfect team. The world will remember you. There's so much that we're going to accomplish."

"I'm not doing anything for you!" Sherlock exclaimed.

Moran rolled his eyes.

"And yet you were so frightened when I was going to leave you alone in that flat!" He shot. "You owe me, Sherlock Holmes. I own you. And if you have any ounce of true love towards your _girlfriend_, you'll listen to me."

Sherlock's eyes seemed to trail towards Irene then, like they were magnets. His cheeks burst with embarrassment, but he couldn't be bothered by it for long.

"Come," Moran said, nodding towards the end of the alley. "We have a plane to catch. We have to round up the rest of the troops."

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><p>Author's Note: You're getting closer and closer to finding out what's going on! Please let me know what you think!<p> 


	32. Chapter 32

Author's Note: This is the chapter you didn't know you were waiting for. Why? It's truly the beginning of the end. No, the story's not quite over yet. But things will really start to wrap up soon. From this point on, much of the rest of what happened in 2013 will be told in the "present" (2014). Except for a few certain important events ;) And did I mention an important character returns in this chapter? No? Well, you'll just have to read on to see what I mean!

* * *

><p><em>2014<em>

Sherlock fell silent for a moment, giving his head a chance to clear. Beside him, his brother remained quiet, taking in these new developments. Another hour must have passed since last seeing Moran. There wasn't a sound to be heard in the building save for his careful words recalling the story of the past year of his life.

"I'm confused," Mycroft finally breathed, "I must have missed the part of the story where it turns out you're _not_ a terrorist."

His eyes fell to the floor and he swallowed, sick with guilt.

"I had to lead Moran here," Sherlock whispered, "I had to make him think he won. It was the only way to make him vulnerable enough to bring him down."

Laughter burst through the silent room, bouncing off the walls and leaving Sherlock suddenly feeling uncomfortable.

"Look where you are, Sherlock!" Mycroft exclaimed, tugging on his bonds, "you're not doing a very good job of winning."

A wary smile crossed Sherlock's face.

"Fight's not over."

At that moment a pair of footsteps pounded against the floors, growing louder and louder as the shadow of Sebastian Moran grew closer. He could feel Mycroft tense beside him, but Sherlock's eyes remained locked onto Moran.

"Oh, don't let me interrupt," Moran smirked, "I just love this part of the story. So many twists and turns and _romance_. Just sends shivers down my spine. Go ahead, Sherlock, why don't you continue. Please. Tell your brother what you're really doing here, tonight. Tell him what we have in store for London."

Mycroft's eyes fell on him, glowing with a dark hatred. Sherlock refused to look his way as he remained silent. As Moran neared him he knelt down, remaining at an uncomfortably close distance. His breathing slowed to a stop as he noticed the glimmer of the knife hidden beneath the sleeve of Moran's jacket.

"Why don't you tell him about how you manipulated every last one of my men, turned them into fools," Moran spat. Moran withdrew a mobile from his pocket- Mycroft's. His brother's eyes widened. "Your mobile has been ringing off the hook. I imagine your people are starting to get worried, considering you're missing in action during the biggest criminal raid in London history."

He was aware that his brother's eyes were now trained on him, confused. His own breathing was so uneven that he was afraid he might pass out, right then and there. A twinkle appeared in Moran's eyes, and he laughed.

"Oh, you're clever, Mr. Holmes, but there's still one person that you haven't beaten yet." Sherlock gasped as the knife suddenly whipped through the air and the blade landed against his cheek. "Me."

His heart pounded in his chest as he watched the knife from the corner of his eye, tracing the blade as it dropped ever so slightly down his skin. He hissed as a hot wave of pain washed over him; Moran only smirked.

"So I suppose your endgame was what, to send all my men into a trap, then lead me here to kill me? No, no life isn't that easy, Mr. Holmes. You see-" he leaned into his ear, and whispered: "I have friends in the British government too." He stood back, and grinned. "One of them is right beside you."

His head snapped towards Mycroft, who had his eyes closed in desperation.

"Your brother and I have had our deals, we have," Moran said, "an eye for an eye. A life for a life. Got me out of quite of a few pickles. And Mycroft here was more than gracious to have someone on the inside. That is, until one day he decided that our deals weren't worth keeping. And I don't like people who don't keep their word."

He screamed the last part right into Mycroft's face. His brother's eyes remained closed, and Sherlock whished he would open him; wished he'd give him some kind of hint of what Moran meant.

The knife was suddenly on his face again, the ice cold blade pressing against his pale skin. Moran was only inches away from him.

"Story time is over," he said, his voice so low and cold it might have broken like ice. The blade trace down his cheek, ever so slightly, but enough for him to feel warm blood trickling down his skin. "The London police had a field day of anonymous tips today, leading them straight to some of the greatest and most valuable criminals on this bloody planet. Brilliant scheme, really. A little anti-climatic, but hey, we all have our different tastes." He swerved in and out of consciousness as the knife fell again. The tip of the blade was nearly to his jaw; his heart was pounding at such an astonishing speed that his chest hurt.

"Fifteen of my men are looking at life sentences right now. Though we both know what will really happen- they'll disappear into the night, never to be seen again. They'll be tortured and shut away on their own, for years and years and _years_, just like your brother did to me."

Breathing hurt by now. He felt a sharp pain every time he exhaled. His face felt numb. He couldn't feel himself move as his head turned slightly towards Mycroft. His brother's eyes locked into his, pleading for forgiveness.

"But there's still one last chance." At last the knife dropped, and Sherlock couldn't help it. He let out a long, shaky, cry of pain. A drop of blood fell to the collar of his shirt and he closed his eyes; he was drenched in perspiration. "You two."

"Please," Mycroft pleaded. His voice sounded so broken that Sherlock wanted to shout at him, to remind him to stay strong. "This isn't his battle."

Moran barked with laughter. He opened his eyes just in time to see the fist flying towards him; to see the knuckles land squarely against his jaw. The knife, still lingering in Moran's hand, nicked his skin once more. Gasps of pain raced from raw throat. Once again, Moran's face was only inches from his.

"Did you hear that?" Moran spat. "This isn't your battle. Then what good are you?"

A syringe was withdrawn from Moran's pocket. Sherlock's eyes widened with terror as he recognized immediately what it was for. He shook his head, struggling desperately against his bonds as he pushed himself back against the beam, as though hoping to move it with his strength alone.

"No!" Sherlock pleaded.

He couldn't remember ever hearing himself sound so desperate in his life.

Moran only laughed.

"Don't worry," he said, "you'll like where you're going."

Sherlock gasped as the needle pierced his arm. White spots danced before his eyes as a hot pain rushed through him. He closed his eyes, unable to stop the overwhelming fear that was shutting out reality. He begged himself to breathe- _in, out, in, out_- but it was only moments before it was all too much, and darkness overwhelmed him.

* * *

><p>He woke to the sounds of him choking on his own breath. His eyes shot open and a shiver traveled down his spine. Sherlock was lying on a freezing concrete floor, in a small dormitory-sized room. Florescent lights shone on him brightly from above. Blinking, he fought to hold onto conscious as he rolled onto his side. He let out a groan and drew in a deep breath, feeling dizzy from the heaviness in his head.<p>

He placed his hands firmly against the floor and forced himself to get to sit up. His racing heart still pounded feverishly in his chest, and his entire body broke out into chills…_side effects_. Bile rushed up his throat, and he had to swallow quickly to prevent himself from being sick.

Shaking his head he turned around.

_Focus._

He blinked, realizing there was another figure in the room. As his vision came back into focus he stepped closer to the form of a man in front of him.

Someone was tied to a chair. Definitely a man, he decided, as he noted the style of trainers and denim trousers. Judging by the thick jumper he was wearing, Sherlock estimated the man had been kidnapped five hours ago. The weather was far too warm during the day to justify a jumper.

The captured man squirmed, reacting to the sounds of Sherlock's footsteps moving closer.

_Focus._

Slowly the fog drifted away, and Sherlock raced forward. He snatched the burlap sack off the man's head- and his heart stopped when he realized who he was looking at.

He was looking into the eyes of John Watson.

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><p>Author's Note: I couldn't resist that cliffhanger! I may or may not have been planning it since the very beginning development stages of this story. So...thoughts? Feedback?<p> 


	33. Chapter 33

Neither of them could say anything, yet neither could look away.

Sherlock took in everything: hair, longer now and unkempt. Tan, gone. Eyes, worn with exhaustion and lined with thick, red, bruises. Breathing, short and haggard. Not as in shape as he used to be.

He was finding it a little hard to remain standing himself. The world spun, and not just from the drugs roaming through his body.

To say he hadn't expected to see John Watson tonight was an understatement. No- Sherlock had been prepared for the worst. He was fully ready to be informed that he couldn't go back home, no matter if it was all over.

John seemed to be drifting between confusion and anger. A sickening feeling settled in his stomach as he realized how extremely _unhappy_ John seemed to be to see him.

At last John looked as though he wanted to say something, but Sherlock realized he was bound by a gag around his mouth. Sherlock carefully stepped forward. He was hardly able to breathe as he removed the gag and tossed it to the floor. John continued to stare at him, without speaking a word, as he then moved to untie his hands.

When the rope fell John let out a deep sigh of relief and flexed his wrist, which were already raw with red bruises. John's arms fell limp to his sides. He paused for a moment, head tilted down.

Suddenly John stood up, and Sherlock took a step back. For a moment he thought that John might actually hurt him. Instead his former flatmate's eyes roamed over him, taking in the ugly scar cutting into his face and the dried blood running down his jaw.

"I'd hit you, but it looks like someone's taken care of that already," John announced.

His voice was raspy and frail from struggling to talk for so long. Sherlock drew in a deep breath but didn't speak. He studied John once again and noticed the dried blood on his knuckles, which indicted he had put up a fight with his attacker. Sherlock's eyes widened- Moran hadn't had a scratch on him.

_Someone else is here._

The act of thinking was far too overwhelming to try to comprehend what was happening. If John was here then he was here for a reason. He had been kidnapped and held against his will for hours. He didn't have a clue what was going on. For all Sherlock knew, John hadn't thought of him or Moriarty for two and a half years.

_He doesn't even know who Moran is_, he realized in horror.

And yet he was brought into this- _all because of me_.

"Are you hurt?" Sherlock asked quietly.

He knew it was a stupid thing to say, but he was truly beginning to feel nauseous at the fact that John had been kidnapped because of him.

John glared at him for a moment, before at last replying:

"Am I hurt? Am I _hurt_?" He took a step towards him, and Sherlock swallowed nervously as he responded by taking a step backwards. "Do you have any idea what I've been through for the past two and a half years? I've been nothing but hurt! And now I'm trapped here, wherever that is, with the bastard who did me the honor of jumping off a rooftop _in front of me_!"

He screamed so loud that it was almost painful to hear. It didn't help that blood was rushing through his head and every few moments he had to remind himself to breathe.

"I don't expect you to forgive me," he offered quietly.

_Stupid._

He wasn't prepared for this. At all.

"Good." John spat. "Because I won't ever forgive you for what you put me through."

"I don't want you to forgive me."

The words came out of him so quietly, so helplessly, that even he was surprised to admit this. Whatever John went through, _he_ caused it.

"But please…" he swallowed again; since when had he become so emotional? "Please let me explain."

John stared at him, and for a blissful moment Sherlock thought he would agree. He thought that, somehow, he might understand.

Instead John turned and bolted towards the door. He began to pound on it, desperately shouting for someone to let him out. Sherlock rushed towards him and put a hand over his mouth to silence him.

"John, stop!"

John shoved him away, violently. Sherlock nearly lost his balanced as he stumbled back and stared in awe at him. John made to scream once again, but Sherlock interrupted before he could.

"We can't draw attention to ourselves!" He hissed.

"Oh, _now_ we can't draw attention to ourselves?" John snapped. "But before, when we you were dragging me around with the bloody police solving serial murders, that didn't matter?"

Sherlock's mouth fell open. He tried to convince himself not to say what was on the tip of his tongue, tried to tell himself he'd regret it, but he couldn't help but to defend himself.

"You're the one who started the blog," Sherlock shot. "You're the one who drew in the media and sensationalized it all."

John's hands contorted into fists, and as soon as he took a step forward the regret hit.

"I didn't mean that," he admitted. "Look, John…"

"Don't talk to me." John's voice was shaking now, and when Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, he screamed. "Don't! I don't want you talking to me, or coming near me. We're getting out of here, and then I never want to see you again. I don't know what's going on, I don't want to know. All I know is that until five minutes ago, I thought you were dead. Sherlock…I _thought you were dead_."

His voice broke as he turned away. He was doing a terrible job of hiding the fact that tears were threatening to surface. Holding his face in his hands, John slid against a wall. Sherlock paused for a moment before joining him. The two didn't speak, and John didn't dare to look up.

A few moments later, and he still couldn't speak. He couldn't think. All that ran through his head was that John _hated him_. Truly hated him.

A far-away scream pierced through the silence. Both men looked up. Sherlock's eyes widened in horror. _Mycroft._ He ran his hands through his hair, desperately trying to control the panic racing through him.

Another scream.

Sherlock hid his face in his arms. His head swam with dizziness and he closed his eyes, wishing it all away. Another scream killed that wish.

"Sherlock?" John asked quietly.

"Don't," Sherlock mumbled, "you don't have to say anything."

Suddenly John seemed to forget all of his threats. Sherlock was grateful for his silence, for the sympathy, and for the feeling that for that moment, everything seemed to be back to normal.

"Who's out there?" John asked, ignoring him.

Sherlock lifted his head just enough to be able to reply:

"Do you remember how I called Moriarty a consulting criminal?"

John nodded.

"Yeah."

"The man who consulted him is named Sebastian Moran."

"And he's the one who kidnapped us?" John said.

Sherlock looked at him, shocked to realize that John thought that he himself was a victim in all of this.

"No," Sherlock admitted. His throat tasted so dry that he had to stop for a moment. He closed his eyes again as another wave of nausea hit. "Well, yes, but…"

Another scream.

"Who is he, Sherlock?" John pressed.

More nausea. He could feel the drugs rushing through him, the high of it all would soon be gone.

"Sherlock?"

_Breathe in, breathe out. _

"Are you alright?"

_Breathe in, breathe out._

"Whatever, don't tell me."

John sank down to the floor as Sherlock rested his head in his hands.

"Sorry," he mumbled. "It's just that I'm busy trying not to vomit. I thought you might find some appreciation in that."

He looked up and was surprised to find John looking at him in concern.

"You're high," John whispered; and then, he laughed. "Christ, you're high. "Here I am, wondering how my practice is getting on without me, while you're worried about when you can get your next hit!"

"John!" Finally, silence, but then John's words really struck him. "Your practice?"

His former flatmate let out a deep sigh.

"Yes, I opened my own practice," he muttered.

"That's brilliant."

He tried to smile, but the effort only made him feel sicker.

"Yeah, well I won't do too well if I keep disappearing before work."

"Wait, keep disappearing?" Sherlock repeated.

John kicked at the ground as he wrapped his arms around himself.

"Mycroft keeps dropping by to see me."

"Mycroft?"

His eyes immediately narrowed with interest. Mycroft hadn't mentioned anything about seeing John- and judging by his last few conversations he didn't care to. Then again, much of those conversations had taken place over a year ago.

John nodded, looking more miserable than Sherlock had ever seen him.

"He just keeps wondering around," John said, "dare I say it, he almost seems _lonely_. But I know he's just trying to get information out of me."

"Information?"

"God only knows what," John replied. "But he strikes up the most random conversations. 'Been out of the country lately?' 'Are you traveling much?'"

Sherlock's heart fell. Mycroft was poking around John's life to see if there was an off chance Sherlock had come crawling back home. He was that desperate for information about his brother.

"And of course by dropping by I mean having one of his minions pull me into a car from the side of the street," John snapped. "The man's a nutcase."

At that precise moment, another scream echoed down the hall. John paled.

"Sorry," John muttered.

Sherlock shook his head.

"I just…I don't understand," John admitted. "I hadn't talked to Mycroft since his mother's funeral. Why would he suddenly come see me? Why is he here with us, now? Why is he being tortured, and not us?"

Sherlock looked at him, breath momentarily trapped in his lungs.

"You went to my mother's funeral?" He asked quietly.

John stared at him; he must have not considered that Sherlock would have gone through that same loss. At last, he nodded.

"Yeah," he whispered.

A soft clicking sound caught his attention from down the hall. There was only one source that sound belonged to. He knew it too well.

He jumped up, ignoring the violent wave of sickness that attacked him. Sherlock rushed up to the door and began pounding on it and shouting…exactly what he had told John not to do earlier.

"What happened to not doing that?" John snapped.

Ignoring him, Sherlock continued to pound on the door and shout for help until his voice ran dry and the clicking of heels stopped right on the other side of the door. His breath fell short as he realized she must be just _inches_ from him.

There was a beep of a security alarm. Sherlock froze as the door opened carefully. His eyes, glued to the floor, immediately found the soles of Irene Adler's black high heels. He swallowed, suddenly feeling extremely uncomfortable. As his eyes trailed up he followed the slick black evening gown that she changed into.

"You changed," he managed.

Irene smirked and shrugged as she twirled a chain with the security card around her finger.

"It spices things up a bit."

A sly grin crossed her face as she reached up, and one of those fingers brushed across the gruesome scar on his face. He stiffened as her hand caressed his chin, and her eyes bore straight into his.

"You're high," she stated.

Unamused. No trace of concern. A simple observation.

"I was drugged," he replied dryly.

She nodded; no sympathy, no remorse.

Someone cleared their throat behind him, and Sherlock was embarrassed to remember that John was still in the room.

"John's here," Irene announced, eyes still latched to his.

He nodded.

"He wasn't a part of the plan," Irene pointed out; it sounded more like a warning.

Again, he forced himself to swallow his nerves away.

"Plan?" John said, stepping forward.

"Sherlock's plan to kidnap his brother and trap Moran for once and for all," she said it all without taking her eyes off him, making him feel all the more uncomfortable. "It's going brilliantly."

She smirked at him, and he knew all too well that she knew how uncomfortable she was making him. He finally snapped out of it when John stepped between them.

"The plan?" John said again.

Sherlock had never seen him angrier. That was the first time he worried that things would truly never be the same between them.

"I kidnapped Mycroft," he whispered.

John simply stared at him, as though hoping he was somehow imagining all of this.

"It was the only way to fix this," he admitted, miserably.

"It was a brilliant plan, sweetie," Irene smirked.

There was another pang of sickness at the sarcasm in her voice. Her hand fell on his shoulder; his heart turned to ice. He couldn't take his eyes away from John, from the pain etched into his former friend's face. John was looking at him as though he didn't even know who he was.

If only he could tell him that _he_ wasn't sure who he was anymore either.

"I can explain," he breathed, the words coming out of him in drops of pain.

John nodded; he just looked so _disgusted_.

"I'm sure you can." Suddenly John looked up at Irene. "Am I free to go?"

"No, John-"

He tried to explain that this wasn't what it seemed, but Irene held up a hand to stop him, and nodded. John shoved passed them to flee the room. He stopped briefly before reaching the end of the corridor.

"For the past two and a half years I wished for nothing more than for you to be alive. But now…I don't even know you. Maybe I never did."

John took one last, longing, look at him- as though hoping that somehow none of this was real. A moment later, when they were all still there, John simply shook his head and turned to leave.

"It's too dangerous-" he attempted.

John held up a hand, waving him away.

Now he truly felt like he would be sick. Irene turned back to him, her eyes now dark with empathy.

"Sherlock-"

"New plan," he interrupted. "Get Mycroft, kill Moran, get out of here, and leave London as quickly as possible."

He stepped around her, storming into the corridor. His eyes fought back as they adjusted to the sharp lighting, but he ignored the fact that his head was spinning like mad and continued walking.

"But Sherlock!"

Swirling around, his eyes found hers once more, roaring with anger.

"Clearly there's nothing left for me here."

She opened her mouth to protest, but he was already fleeing down the hallway, heading in the direction opposite of the one John stormed off in.

He studied the blueprints of Thames House long enough to know every corridor, every corner, every staircase, and every hidden door of the building. Irene's heels clicked behind him as he raced down the first staircase. From the echoes of the screams he knew to head downstairs and to the edge of the building.

"Sherlock!" Irene called again.

She wasn't far behind him. Subconsciously, he must have slowed as he realized this. Her hand found his arm, pulling him towards him.

Soon he found himself facing her once more, inches apart, foreheads connected.

Silently, breathlessly, her lips found him. She pulled him closer; his hands wrapped around her arms.

But just as soon as he relaxed into her, she pulled away. Her eyes trailed up to meet his, twinkling as the smallest of smiles swept across her face.

"It's good to see you too," he whispered. "I…I…"

_Was worried._

But somehow he couldn't find the courage to continue. Her fingers traced his scar once again; he shivered at the touch, though his face had long-since gone numb. His eyes shifted away, embarrassed.

"You need to be strong," she told him softly. "This has gotten far too personal."

"He's torturing my brother."

"I know."

"I let this happen."

He was certain he was going to be sick now. He could feel the bile creeping up his throat, until he had to swallow it away, sending a sour taste cascading back to the pit of his stomach.

"You can stop it."

Their eyes met again, and Sherlock nodded, grateful for her support. He drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. Sherlock was shaking a bit as he finally replied:

"Let's end this."

* * *

><p>Author's Note: Well there you have it, the long-awaited reunion! John's definitely not gone for good. Let me know what you think!<p> 


	34. Chapter 34

Author's Note: In case you're wondering, I've been picturing James Nesbitt as Moran in this story.

Warning: For violence. And sadness.

* * *

><p>Mycroft breathed in deeply, fighting to allow air into his lungs. He felt like his entire throat collapsed in on itself. No longer could he feel the arms that were tied behind him. His mouth felt dry and raw. His eyes were nearly swollen shut. He looked around the best he could, searching for any sign of Moran.<p>

Chest heaving up and down heavily, he tried to keep the anxiety at bay. The only remains of the torture session were the sounds of his wheezing.

_No fear_, he told himself. _Concentrate._

He tested the bonds tied too tightly around his wrists, but his fingers were still too numb. Resting his head against the beam he closed his eyes, trying to regain his senses.

A series of soft echoes drew his attention back to the door at the end of the room. Warily, he lifted his head. His breathing slowed to a stop when the figure of Moran appeared. He forced himself to straighten up, determined to make himself look a little less helpless.

His eyes were locked on Moran even as he stepped closer and knelt down in front of him. On instinct he tensed, pushing himself further back against the beam. His labored breathing filled the room as Moran searched his eyes…and laughed.

"Are you doing okay, Holmes?" Moran asked. Mycroft tested the bonds again; he gasped a little as he realized he was regaining a little feeling in his hands. "Good…good. Then I suppose, you wouldn't happen to know what happened to your brother, would you?"

Mycroft blinked in confusion; his heart raced upon hearing his brother's name. All he could think of was the way Sherlock slumped down as he was drugged, and how hopeless he looked as Moran dragged him away.

"You see, he escaped," Moran said, "and I'm sure you can understand why that makes me a bit angry."

He forced himself not to react while inside, he immediately eased with relief. His brother was okay. Hopefully he wasn't stupid enough to come rescue him, but wherever he was, he was safe.

"Leave him…" he moaned a little at the effort it took to speak; he had to swallow a few times to regain his voice. "Just you and me. Between…you and me."

Moran looked away for a moment, unconvinced.

"You've been saying that now, for a couple of hours," Moran said. "If this is so between you and me, then why can't you just do what I say?"

Mycroft tried to answer, but when he was left breathless he simply shook his head.

"Right," Moran said. Mycroft flinched violently when Moran reached up to him, but he held his breath when he only patted him on the cheek. "I'll give your brother another thirty minutes. If he has the courage to show up, we can continue. If not, we'll go to plan B." Moran's eyes narrowed as he saw the suspicion in Mycroft's eyes. "I'll kill him."

His heart began pounding in his chest as bile crept up his throat. He flexed his wrists once more as best he could against the bonds.

"How about thirty seconds?"

Mycroft drew in a sharp breath, and his eyes shot up in search of his brother's voice.

There he was, waltzing into the room, a gun that wasn't his drawn and pointed at Moran. Mycroft's eyes widened as they fell on the new scar on his brother's face. Blood drenched the shoulder of his sweatshirt. His hands shook ever so slightly- a side effect, he was sure, from the drug. One glance to Moran, and Mycroft knew he noticed too.

"Need another hit?" Moran shot.

He turned toward Sherlock, despite the gun raised at him. Sherlock's eyes twitched, and Mycroft could only hope the thought didn't appeal to him. Instead of replying, his brother's eyes met his, and Mycroft could see the horror there. Yet Sherlock's eyes narrowed, warning him to stay quiet.

"That's cute," Sherlock said, his eyes now glued to Moran. "You think you're powerful, hiding here, torturing a tied-up man. You're alone, Moran. Your manipulation, your games? It all ends tonight."

Moran smirked, but as Mycroft studied him he could see the signs: he was becoming anxious. His fingers twitched, inching toward the knife that was still in his pocket, tainted with Sherlock's blood. But his hands shook, uncertain with these new developments.

"I know you and John must be so anxious to get back to your quaint life at Baker Street," Moran replied.

Sherlock's fingers wrapped a little more tightly around the gun.

"I'm not going back to Baker Street." The announcement even shocked him. Mycroft's eyes widened in shock, and he wished desperately to be able to speak up and demand to know what was going on. But he knew he shouldn't. "I've learned a lot these past two and a half years. I've learned what's important. I've realized the things which should be important. My brother…"

His voice trailed off, and Mycroft froze as their eyes met. Sherlock nodded, a token of appreciation. Mycroft only stared at him, in shock. Never did Sherlock ever willingly offer any trace of appreciation to him.

"This isn't a game to me, Moran," he continued, his voice more dark and serious than he had ever heard. "It isn't _fun_. You're going to stop hurting the people I care about."

Moran studied his brother for a moment. Only the sound of Mycroft's uneven breaths filled the room as the two men stared at each other, each daring the other to make the call. Though he knew silence made Sherlock nervous, he remained perfectly still. The gun was trained in expert fashion at Moran. He knew at that moment that Sherlock wasn't bluffing: he came to kill.

"I'd be more than happy to do that," Moran replied, standing up straight. "You see, I haven't been blindly playing this game. I've always known it will end. That's what I've been discussing with your brother. Isn't that right, Mycroft?"

Moran turned toward him and smirked. Mycroft shifted uncomfortably; just the flash of Moran's eyes made him twitch. The criminal laughed.

"Mycroft, would you like to share with the class what you've learned today?" Moran said, his voice a higher pitch than normal. Mycroft only glared at him. "No, I didn't think so."

He slapped him across the face. _Hard._ Mycroft bit his lip, refusing to react to such petty violence. As he slowly turned his head back toward Moran he caught sight of his brother and noticed how his hands tightened around the trigger. Without looking at Sherlock, Moran exclaimed:

"Oh, you're not going to shoot me! Why don't we just save ourselves the anxiety and do away with the gun?"

Sherlock took a step closer. Moran's face melted into disgust.

"What do you want from me, Sherlock?" Moran asked. "An apology? Do you want me to say…I'm sorry?"

Mycroft was more desperate to get at him than ever when he realized that Moran actually had the nerve to mock his brother. He could see it in Sherlock's eyes that it was all he could do to not lash out.

"This isn't about killing me," Moran continued. He swirled around, waving a hand toward Mycroft. "This is about getting what _he_ wants. It's always been. For too many years, I haven answered to the call of Mycroft Holmes."

He couldn't help it. He laughed.

"Have you?" Mycroft said, suddenly able to find his voice again as adrenaline pumped through him. "I'm sorry, but were you answering to my call when you sent Moriarty out to kill all those innocent people? When you made my brother sacrifice his life for his friends? You've taken this game way too far."

Moran took a few quick strides toward him; his heart skipped a beat on instinct.

"And you didn't take this game too far when you locked me up for months?" Moran shot, his eyes dark and icy. "When you went after _my _family? All for what, information?"

"For information that saved lives!" Mycroft exclaimed. "You're insane, Moran. Stop pretending like you were an innocent kid who fell into the wrong crowd and admit who you really are: a psychopath."

Moran burst out laughing; Mycroft swore a chilly wind swept through the room at the same moment.

"Me, the psychopath?" Moran replied, pointing both hands toward himself. "Let's recap. Does Sherlock know the story?"

Mycroft exchanged a quick glance with his brother, who looked like he didn't know what to think. His fingers twitched slightly as they tightened around the trigger. His palms were sweaty, and there was no way too tell how much longer Sherlock could last before the withdrawal symptoms truly began to take effect.

"Wonderful!" Moran replied, his voice drenched with sarcasm. "Story time! You see, when I was just a kid I was hired at a shipping yard-"

"I know this part of the story," Sherlock interrupted. "You've picked a hell of a time to try to get any sympathy out of me."

Moran rolled his eyes.

"Fine," Moran said. "Let's jump ahead a few years, when Sherlock came to _me_ because he's looking for a new partner."

When he looked to his brother this time, Sherlock refused to meet his eyes. He was clearly guilt-ridden and disturbed, and Mycroft had a feeling Moran wouldn't tell the real story.

"Of course I always knew there had to be more to the story," Moran admitted. "Yet he still spent months rounding up the remains of my 'web'- as he calls it. Tonight's entire plot would have never truly come together without Sherlock's help. It's really too bad I wasn't able to recruit him from the start. Little did I know how far he would fall with the whole drugs bit."

It was all he could do to not interrupt- he never had accepted that his brother's drug addiction was really all thanks to Moran.

"I was just beginning to believe he actually turned, but one night, everything went terribly wrong," Moran said, with feigned sympathy. "Everything went wrong with one phone call. Turns out, Sherlock was secretly meeting up with Irene Adler- who was known to be working with a group of outcast criminals in Austria. I did a little digging and come to find out, rumor had it Sherlock Holmes was spotted in Vienna not too long before then. Your brother was playing me. Imagine how I felt, knowing that I let _Sherlock Holmes_ loose on some of my most trusted allies."

Mycroft smirked.

"I imagine a bit like a fool."

Moran glared, and took a couple more threatening steps toward him.

"So I reached out to my men," Moran continued, looking directly at Sherlock now, "and I warned them. I warned them to stay as far away from the Holmes brothers as they could. So they did, and do you know where those few, remaining, men are?"

Sherlock swallowed nervously, and he knew both of them knew exactly what Moran was going to say. And the thought made Mycroft sick.

"They're here in London, with their rifles turned on your friends. Lestrade. Mrs. Hudson. And Dr. Watson- well, until one of them came up with a brilliant plan."

"It wasn't brilliant enough."

Mycroft's heart leapt to his throat at the sound of John Watson's voice. He watched as Sherlock stiffened, though didn't turn, as he heard his friend speak. His eyes immediately fell on the wounds on John's face- the black eyes, split lip. Then there were the rope burns on his wrists.

When Sherlock still didn't say anything, Mycroft realized he must be in shock. After all, he hadn't talked to John in two and a half years. He took it upon himself to say something.

"John-"

"Quiet, Mycroft," John said, with a kind of calmness that was almost eerie, "I'm trying to figure out where I should be pointing the gun."

His eyes turned then to the gun in John's hands, which clearly wasn't the doctor's revolver. The traces of blood on John's hands hinted at the rest of the story.

"You got someone to kidnap John," Mycroft realized quietly.

Suddenly his heart began pounding as he realized what was going on. If Moran was using John and not him against Sherlock, then what did he want with him?

"Mr. Moran here made a serious mistake," John announced, looking directly at the back of Sherlock's head, "he thinks I care."

A wicked smile crossed Moran's face.

"There's no mistake, John," Sherlock said softly, "because _I_ care."

"Touching," Moran said. "But he's right, Dr. Watson. Sherlock cares so much that he's been running around the world for two and a half years taking down my _web_ man by man. Though I'm still not entirely sure why. What was this all about Sherlock, revenge? Killing a dozen of my men to avenge me threatening to kill yours?"

John's eyes hardened as he looked to Sherlock for explanation, but Sherlock ignored him.

"Don't act innocent," Sherlock said, "and don't you dare try to put this on Mycroft."

"Sherlock-" Mycroft attempted.

"Will everyone just _shut up_?" Sherlock cried. His hands were shaking now. "I have watched every single one of my friends have their lives threatened. Innocent people have died. I sacrificed all of this- everything so that I could try to make sense of it all. None of it, none of it, makes sense."

"Sherlock, please," Mycroft pleaded.

Even John looked uncertain as his eyes remained glued to his former flatmate.

"Sherlock, are you alright?" John asked quietly.

"_NO!_" Sherlock screamed, making all of them jump. "I jumped off a building. I've been in hiding. I've been working with some of the lowest of the low. I've been hurt. I've seen people die. I've been drugged, I-"

Sherlock trailed off as he looked around, hopelessly searching for help. Mycroft knew what was happening to him. He knew the torturous pain rushing through his brother's veins. He knew his own mind was failing him, and Mycroft could see the struggle to accept this playing in his brother's eyes.

"If you want to end this, Mr. Holmes," his voice was low as he stepped toward Sherlock. When he stopped he was only inches from the gun in his brother's hands. "Then end it."

Moran reached out and grabbed hold of the weapon, pointing the barrel of the gun right into his own chest. Sherlock's bloodshot eyes widened in horror.

"You've been working with my brother for years," Sherlock announced softly, "exchanging information. Exchanging criminals. Capturing each other and then letting each other go. Abusing power. This twisted game is between you two, and I was dragged into this. The only people who dare to care about me were dragged into this. We're just pawns. I knew this, and that's why I had to pretend to be on your side. I realized being on the inside was the only way to get out. So yes, I set up your men. And you may have caught me. But rest assured, Moran, none of my friends are in danger tonight. Not even John. There's one part of this scenario that you've overlooked." Something twinkled in Sherlock's eyes, and the slightest trace of fear appeared in Moran. "Where's Irene Adler?"

At that moment Mycroft was finally able to loosen the bonds around his wrist. He leapt up- and nearly fell over as the blood rushed to his head. He held his face in his hands, trying to get rid of the dizziness. He breathed slowly, trying to regain control of his numb limbs.

"She's been out, taking care of those few remaining men," Sherlock explained. "And she took care of the Austria group too. You're truly alone, Moran. Now, how does that make you feel?"

Sherlock grinned, and for the first time in two and a half years Mycroft could recognize his brother again. He knew they were both thinking the same thing_: it's over_.

"Now the remaining question is: which of us is going to shoot you first?" Sherlock said. He glanced toward John. "John, would you like to do the honors?"

John looked from Sherlock to Mycroft, at loss for words.

"I…Sherlock, I don't understand," John finally admitted.

Morn rolled his eyes. In a single moment he reached out, grabbing the gun once again. The weapon clattered to the floor as he grabbed a hold of Sherlock. His arm was wrapped tightly around his neck. His knife was pointed at his face.

Sherlock gasped for air, stunned.

"You're all talk, Holmes," Moran spat the words into his ear. Mycroft remained still, too in shock to access the situation properly. "Your parents must have been so disgusted to be stuck with you, knowing that you weren't as clever and capable as your brother. You can twist the words around as much as you would like, but you're _weak_. You're nothing but a junkie who happens to have friends in all the right places."

At last Mycroft shook himself back to reality, and he nodded at John as he slowly began to step toward the weapon on the floor. John's gun remained trained on Moran, whose hold on Sherlock was stronger than ever. His brother's face was turning a frightening shade of blue as he struggled to breathe.

"I can't believe I've spent the past three years of my life fighting _you_," Moran shot. "At least your brother's a challenge. At least he has the government on his side, and there's something to win when I actually beat him. But what do I gain from beating _you_? You're right, you're nothing but a pawn. You're not actually worth anything. Do you think you've beat me, just by taking down my team? They're just men, and men can be replaced. Do you really think that you've actually gotten to me? I have plans far greater than you and your brother. But just in case the world still doesn't take me seriously, I let you play along. I let you plant the bomb here tonight. I figured at the least it would be a quick and easy way to get rid of the Holmes brothers once and for all."

John's eyes widened at the word _bomb_, and Mycroft felt like he might be ill. His brother's hands clenched into fists and then straightened again as he struggled against Moran's hold.

"That's not true," John said, practically pleading with Moran. "Sherlock- tell me, tell me that's not true."

"Sherlock's a bit pre-occupied right now with losing," Moran snapped, grinning. "Mycroft has known my plans for quite some time, but even he never believed they'd actually come true. It took someone as stupid as Sherlock Holmes to help me accomplish this. But it's only the beginning."

"Taking over the world?" John said, his voice shaking slightly. "Isn't that a bit cliché?"

"Having power is never a cliché," Moran replied. "Having influence is one of the greatest strengths you can possess. It's something Mycroft knows very well, don't you?"

"Oh do I?"

He quickly reached down and grabbed the gun, and in seconds the weapon was perfectly trained on Moran. John relaxed a little when he saw he had help.

"I think they both deserve to know what this is about," Mycroft said. "Why don't I tell them? Why don't I tell them how you've been personally targeting me since I was twenty-five years old? Why don't I tell them about how you've issued numerous attacks on my ambassadors, how you've made numerous assassination attempts against me? How you only agreed to start making deals with me because I caught you? Because you're aligned with some of the most dangerous men this world has ever seen- and you're in over your head because of it? You're the one that's all talk, Sebastian. It's why you surround yourself with your merry band of friends. It's why you've been stalling here, because you're afraid to admit this all amounts to _nothing_."

A grin spread across Moran's face, but Mycroft noticed the criminal looked more exhausted than ever. He suddenly looked years old than he did before.

"Yes," Moran spat, "well, all this nothing is going to explode into billions of bits in exactly ten minutes. And then this country's going to completely fall apart. It's truly disgusting, you know, to be forced to watch the people in this world fight for control. It's pathetic. None of you know what you're doing, which is why we never actually get anywhere. It's just the same old wars and bombing and poverty and blah, blah, blah over and over again!"

"You're completely mad," John whispered, tightening his grip on the gun.

"Am I?" Moran said, dropping his voice. "Am I mad, Dr. Watson? I must be mad, because I'm still standing here. And if everything I said is true, then I must be going."

Moran's head suddenly turned toward Mycroft, and he smiled. Mycroft's blood turned cold, and his heart froze, as though suddenly he knew what was going to happen. But he couldn't stop it. He couldn't move. The gun remained forgotten in his hand, a lightweight reminder that his claims of how weak Moran was were just lies he told himself to make it through the game.

The grip on his brother loosened as Moran's hand that held the knife reached back- and thrust straight into Sherlock's ribs.

The world around him stopped. Sherlock's face contorted into shock, horror, and _pain_. An ungodly, electric rush of pain. His hands fell to his ribs and blood spewed out of him at a frightening speed. He looked up, and Mycroft could only stand there as their eyes met. Life was drifting away from his brother by the second, and all Mycroft could think was _this isn't real_.

Moran patted the knife against Sherlock's chest.

"Keep it," Moran whispered, "consider it a consolation prize."

Sherlock choked, and Mycroft could only stare in horror as blood trickled from his brother's stomach, slowly making its way to the floor. A steady drip formed puddles there, so red and full of life. At last Moran turned, making to flee.

John fired the first shot. Moran stumbled back, his eyes wide. John stepped forward and made to fire a second shot, but Mycroft beat him to it. Bullets sounded off like a symphony. Each one buried themselves in Moran's back until the criminal crumbled to the ground, lifeless.

He stepped forward, stretched above Moran as he looked into his cold, glazed, eyes. His arm swung down, and he slapped the dead man's face with the gun over and over again, until he finally threw the weapon on top of him.

"Keep it," he muttered.

His eyes continued to stare at the dead criminal in shock. Moran looked so powerless, so still and empty that Mycroft couldn't understand how he was ever a threat. He was terrified to turn around, terrified to face the reality of what was going on.

"Mycroft!" John's frantic cries forced him out of his reverie. "Mycroft!"

At last Mycroft drew in a deep breath, and he turned around to face what Moran had done. Sherlock lay on the ground, his entire body shaking. Blood was still pouring out of him; how could that be possible? John was on the ground by his friend, clutching one of his hands while the other checked his pulse. John looked up at him, his own eyes empty and bloodshot, his cheeks stained with tears.

"He's ice cold," John stated, helpless, "but he's breathing. We can help him- Mycroft!"

He ignored him as he knelt down by Sherlock's side. He was vaguely aware that he was trembling. He was vaguely aware of reaching down and placing a hand on Sherlock's arm. His brother's eyes had fallen shut. He was already drifting away.

"My brother-" the words fell out of him so softly that he wasn't even aware he was speaking.

John's hand suddenly fell on his arm. Mycroft's eyes trailed up to his, which were filled with the same fear. And sympathy.

"We can help him," John stated again, quietly, "but if there's any chance Moran is right- if there is a bomb- we have to get out of here. We have to take Sherlock and go."

Mycroft nodded. He felt like his life wasn't real, that he was simply watching all this happen from another world. As he stood up he couldn't feel his legs. John placed a hand over Sherlock's wound, holding it there firmly even as they began to lift the body.

"There's an emergency exit one floor down," Mycroft whispered.

He couldn't remember how he knew this. John nodded. Both of their eyes fell to Sherlock, who looked so still. So alone and so unaware of what happened to him. He was afraid his arms were trembling too much as he held his brother. Though he tried to focus on what they had to do, all he could think of was Moran's cold words, manipulating his brother in the last few moments of his life.

"He was wrong," Mycroft announced, so softly that he wasn't sure John had heard.

"What?"

"Moran," Mycroft explained. "He was wrong. Sherlock won."

* * *

><p>Author's Note: Okay...so how much do you hate me right now? Well, you have every right to. I promise you though, this is far from over. There's still a fair amount of explaining to do. I'm sure you may be fairly confused even after all the talking that went on in this chapter. There is a point to all this- and we are stepping ever so closely toward the end.<p> 


	35. Chapter 35

Warnings: References to violence and drugs.

* * *

><p>"We're going to need transport."<p>

Mycroft couldn't answer. He breathed in slowly, carefully, as he continued to stare at the blood seeping through his brother's sweatshirt. John held his hand against the wound, but Sherlock was bleeding too much.

"Mycroft!"

At last he looked up, his eyes red-rimmed from effort of holding back tears. He was still reeling from the shock of seeing his brother fall to the ground like that…and from his reaction and what they did to Moran.

Moran was gone.

He still couldn't believe it was true.

"I can save him," John said. The doctor himself looked as though he were fighting overwhelming emotions in attempt to stay calm. "But we've got to move him. We can take him to my practice, it's not far from here. We need a car-"

"We have a car." The realization seemed to snap him back into reality. He could feel the adrenaline pumping through him, bringing him back to life. "They brought me here in one."

He began fishing around the pockets of his brother's sweatshirt and trousers for the keys.

"Moran must have taken them," Mycroft said.

Both of them looked at the body on the ground next to Sherlock's. From John's uneven breathing, Mycroft knew he was equally as disturbed.

"He didn't."

John froze at the sound of Irene Adler's shocked words, and Mycroft realized: another lie. Eyes falling closed, John stated quietly:

"Is anyone else not dead?"

Instead of replying, Irene rushed toward them and fell at Sherlock's side. She seemed to immediately burst into panic. Her hands grasped at the wounds, both on his chest and face.

"Sherlock…" she spoke softly, as though hoping to keep him anchored to consciousness with her voice.

"We have to move him," Mycroft told her. Somehow, seeing Irene Adler nearly broken allowed him to find his strength again.

Her eyes shot up to meet his, and he was shocked to see the sincere emotion there, which seemed to only be reserved for his brother.

"And Moran?" She asked him.

When he didn't reply, she seemed to understand. Instead she raised at hand to his face, brushing her fingers against his own wounds. He swallowed, unsure why he was nervous under her touch.

"Do you trust me?" Irene whispered.

He wasn't sure what to think or say. John sat across from them, looking between them, clearly impatient.

"Trust is irrelevant," Mycroft shot, getting to his feet. He glared down at her; he was surprised to see she actually looked hurt. "Moran mentioned a bomb?"

"It's taken care of," Irene replied. His eyes narrowed. There wasn't one bit of him that was certain he could believe her. "Do you really think your brother would do such a thing?"

Mycroft turned back to John, who was pressing against Sherlock's wound even harder now. If there was one thing he learned in the past twenty-four hours it was that he no longer knew his own brother.

"I don't know," he admitted quietly.

"The wound, it's torn a bit," John announced, his voice ridden with anxiety, "Mycroft we have to go- now."

He took one last look at his brother. John was holing Sherlock's head in his hands, keeping him close as though he were seven years old again. His face was just _so pale_…

John raised a blood-soaked hand to Sherlock's neck; he ran a hand over his face as he felt the pulse.

"His pulse is weak."

He sounded _so frightened_.

"I'll get the car ready," Irene announced.

* * *

><p>Three hours later John was stitching up the last of Sherlock's wounds. The doctor was drenched in sweat and shaking with nerves as he worked each stitch carefully through his brother's skin.<p>

Irene disappeared as soon as they got Sherlock into the building. By the sound of the screeching tires she took the car with her; they were trapped, and the thought certainly didn't do anything for either of their anxiety.

Throughout most of the procedure Mycroft stood quietly next to his brother, obeying whenever John needed him to hand him a tool or apply pressure to the wound. Sherlock's breathing remained sharp and uneven. His pulse was still weak, and though John tried to hide it Mycroft knew on more than one occasion it took multiple tries to detect a heartbeat.

The wound was deeper than they originally feared. As John warned him before, it ripped open even more at one point, and the transportation to the practice didn't do Sherlock any favors.

His brother was shivering now as John dressed the last of the wounds: the new scar that ran down his face. When John pulled the last of the needle and thread through, he let out a shaky sigh of relief and took a step back to admire his work. Mycroft had to admit, his efforts were incredible.

"He'll have that scar for the rest of his life," John commented quietly.

Mycroft nodded. John examined his work, double checking the stiches now holding the knife wound at his ribs together. As he worked his fingers traced additional bruises, still thick and black from previous fights.

"It won't be the only one," Mycroft said. "Those weren't from Moran."

John glanced up to him.

"No?" He asked.

"He put himself in grave danger tonight," Mycroft admitted, "it was, without a doubt, one of the stupidest plans he's ever had. But it definitely was not the worst. The kind he's been traveling with these past couple of years…well, they haven't treated him the best."

John's fingers trailed up to the trackmars on Sherlock's arms, examining both the faded ones from years past and the fresh ones from Moran.

"That…Moran guy," John began, "he drugged him. He knew exactly what made Sherlock tick. Who was he?"

Mycroft crossed his arms and looked away. He was still ignoring the processes he would have to go through to cover up what happened to Moran. He was still ignoring how he would have to explain everything that happened to Sherlock.

"An old enemy," Mycroft stated simply.

John backed away, turning toward the window behind him in frustration. They kept the lights of the building low and brought the curtains down to make certain no one could detect they were there. John peeked outside.

"Fine," he muttered, "don't tell me."

"Sherlock can tell you," Mycroft explained, "after all, it is his story to tell."

Suddenly his head began throbbing, and he remembered the extent of his own injuries. He sat down slowly, sinking into a plastic chair beside the hospital bed. His head fell into his hands, his fingers running through the dried blood in his hair. The skin beneath his eyes was swollen and tender. His lips were scarred and split. Every movement suddenly took twice as much effort as it did a few minutes ago.

"The adrenaline's wearing off," John said, sitting down in the chair next to him. John looked equally as exhausted, and as Mycroft looked up he remembered the trauma his brother's friend had gone through as well.

Without asking for permission, John reached up and began dabbing at the wounds with a damp wash cloth.

"Moran did this to you?" John asked quietly.

Mycroft fidgeted; the hot water stung against the blood.

"It's _fine_," Mycroft lied, swatting at John's hand. John stared at him, eyebrows raised, and Mycroft sighed. They were both far too exhausted to argue about this.

"Anything else?" John inquired. "Besides the face?"

He let out a dramatic sigh. He was starting to understand why Sherlock got so frustrated with having John as a flatmate.

"Might have broken a rib," he admitted.

John placed a hand on his ribcage without warning. He hissed at the pressure; it was though his skin was glass and John's hand shattered it at the touch. John ran a hand through his hair as he stood, sighing. Reaching up to the cupboards, he grabbed some gauze.

"I'll be right back," John announced, when he couldn't seem to find everything he was looking for.

Mycroft nodded and sank back into the chair. Suddenly the exhaustion was too much. His head spun as the world seem to dance before his eyes, and he forced his eyes closed.

How many nights had he hid, quietly in his home, just hoping for some kind of sign that Sherlock was alright? For months on end he would have rather Sherlock suddenly appear, as he had the very first night after the fall, than for him to continue to deny him any kind of contact.

"What did I do?" He whispered to no one.

He opened his eyes and leaned forward slightly, ignoring the pain from his ribs. He gazes at his brother, whose face was still all too pale and body still too stiff. It was just unnatural. So un-Sherlock.

"Why couldn't you just tell me what was going on?" He asked, voice shaking with desperation. He let out a deep sigh; he knew this was fair. "How did I ever let this happen?"

The sound of someone clearing their throat drew his attention away. He was embarrassed to realize John was standing there, listening. He was holding an ice pack, which he handed to Mycroft. He was given a couple of pills and a glass of water as well.

"For the headache," John explained. "I'm assuming you have one?"

He nodded, weakly.

John sat down next to him and lifted his jumper enough to be able to dress the wound. Mycroft winced at the touch and bit down on his bruised lip to keep from crying out in pain.

"He tortured you," John said softly, "we could hear your screams."

"It's nothing I haven't been through before," Mycroft said, desperately wishing John could just let the subject go. "I'm just not as fit as I used to be."

The comment earned him a chuckle from the doctor, who seemed to loosen up a bit for the first time since he saw him that night.

"What happened, Dr. Watson?" He asked. "Sherlock never said you were part of the plan."

John grimaced at the sound of Sherlock's name, and Mycroft realized that he must not have quite accepted what was happening.

"I was kidnapped earlier today," John said. He met his eyes as he admitted. "Honestly, I thought it was your lot."

Mycroft let out a weak laugh.

"Yes, well I grew up with a brother who said nothing to me," Mycroft said. "Between that and the nature of my work I usually have to find creative means to get people to talk to me."

John rolled his eyes.

"I tried putting up a fight, which got me these," John said, pointing to each of his black eyes. "Next thing I knew I was tied up, with a bag over my head, and nothing else happened until Sherlock came. And well…I thought I was going a bit mad. In fact, I'm still not very confident this is actually happening."

"I felt the same," he admitted. John looked at him, confused, and Mycroft was horrified to realize just how much John didn't know. "For almost a full day I thought my little brother had committed suicide. When he showed up in my sitting room, bleeding and with a broken arm, I thought I was imagining things. When he stopped contacting me a year ago, there were nights when I wondered if I imagined it all."

"Why did he-"

"He'll have to explain that part to both of us."

John nodded; he seemed to be understanding Mycroft was just as at a loss for information as he was. He winced, drawing in a sharp breath as John finished dressing the wound.

"Just…try not to move around much," John said. His warning sounded empty and hallow; he must have known Mycroft wouldn't listen.

Their eyes turned to Sherlock, who still lay still on the bed. His heart rate was slightly improving. John stood and began studying his vital signs.

"He's doing well," John said. A sad smile crossed his face. "He's strong."

"It's the drugs I'm worried about," Mycroft admitted. "Once they're in his system…I just don't want him to remember that feeling."

"Do you think he-"

"I don't know."

He didn't want to consider all his brother went through whilst not speaking to him. He didn't want to imagine the circumstances which led to such a desperate need to keep away from him. Mycroft didn't want to think of his brother doing drugs again, or hanging around Moran, or being involved with Irene Adler.

He was beginning to understand his brother's erratic behavior at the bank.

"I told him I didn't want anything to do with him."

Mycroft looked up at him, surprised at the honesty John was offering.

"That's only fair," Mycroft said.

John looked like he might be ill.

"But then I started to think," as John continued, he began pacing. "I started to imagine all he's been through. And god- what could have ever convinced him to do such a thing?"

Mycroft's head fell in his hands once more. The meds were doing a poor job of relieving the pain.

"You have no idea," he mumbled.

"And Mycroft-" he sighed and looked up a John once more. "We…we killed-"

"There's no need for you to worry about that."

John let out a shaky, incredulous, laugh.

"How can I not worry-"

Suddenly the machine beeped a little faster. They fell silent as they turned to Sherlock in anticipation. Mycroft stood slowly, placing his hands on his brother's cold arm. Sherlock's eyes fluttered, his breathing quickened, and his pulse felt slightly stronger underneath his fingertips. Mycroft gripped his brother's wrist- the same one he had broken two and a half years ago- more tightly.

"Sherlock?" He asked quietly.

John simply stared at his former flatmate, looking almost terrified to have to face him again.

Slowly, Sherlock's eyes opened and fell to Mycroft's. He offered his brother a small smile as relief washed over him. Sherlock's eyes seemed somehow less dark and hollow as they did earlier. Lying there, in a hospital bed, with so many wires hooked up to him and an oxygen mask on his face, Sherlock looked much more vulnerable now. Much younger.

But something suddenly snapped in his brother, and his eyes began darting around the room. He was searching for an escape. His hands flailed about until Mycroft grabbed them.

"You're alright," Mycroft promised, looking directly into his eyes. "You're okay, you're safe. You're safe."

Sherlock's eyes softened at those words and he sat back. He then turned to John, who only stood there, frozen. The two old friends stared at each other; Sherlock must have realized at that moment that John saved him. John looked away, uncomfortable.

When Sherlock closed his eyes again, Mycroft noticed a single tear escape from his closed lids. His heart fell; he had never seen his brother look so _relieved_. Sherlock buried his face as much as he could into the pillow, trying to hide the emotions overwhelming him.

"It's over," Mycroft whispered.

John's hands trembled slightly as he reached for the oxygen mask.

"I'm going to remove the mask," John's words were hardly audible. "Deep breaths, okay?"

Sherlock nodded, eyes still closed. Beads of sweat dripped across his forehead as Sherlock grasped the sheets in his hands, obviously confused and overwhelmed. When John removed the mask, Sherlock broke into a series of raspy coughs. Violent gasps for breath filled the room. Mycroft grabbed his brother's hand, frustrated that there was nothing he could do to help.

"Deep breaths," John reminded him.

Sherlock nodded, trying to obey. At last his chest heaved up and down slowly. Tears were falling freely from his eyes, from panic and anxiety. And pain. He couldn't even imagine the pain Sherlock was in.

His eyes dashed from Mycroft to John.

"Irene?" He rasped, when he didn't notice her in the room.

Mycroft and John glanced at each other.

"She left," Mycroft said.

"Sherlock just…rest, don't talk."

As John turned back to the machine keeping track of his heart rate, Sherlock grabbed his arm. John turned to him in surprise.

"Irene…" Sherlock attempted again. His face was once again pale and worn with exhaustion. "Safe?"

Then Mycroft understood. Sherlock was actually _worried_ about her.

"She drove us here and left," Mycroft told him softly. "But yes, as far as we know, she's safe."

Sherlock let out a deep sigh of relief as he sank into the pillow. When his eyes opened again they met Mycroft's. He swallowed uncomfortably as he realized his brother was examining his injuries.

"I'm sorry…" Sherlock whispered.

"Don't," Mycroft said, gripping his brother's wrist once again. "Just rest."

Once again Sherlock closed his eyes. He seemed to calm down a bit upon hearing this. Mycroft couldn't help but to notice that John looked a little, well, jealous. The doctor turned away, clearly feeling forgotten.

"He's fine," John told him, "I'm just- I need to go."

"John-" Mycroft attempted.

But he was ignored, and John pushed passed him, rushing into the corridor. Mycroft turned back to his brother, who was looking away, eyes vacant.

Sighing, Mycroft pulled up a chair and sat down beside him.

"Why didn't you tell me?" He asked quietly.

Sherlock swallowed, struggling to find his voice. Mycroft handed him a glass of water, which Sherlock accepted graciously.

"It was the only way," Sherlock mumbled, "had to be on the inside."

"You could have died."

His hands were shaking now. Even Sherlock looked terrified, in shock at the trauma that happened and the realization that Mycroft was right.

"So could they," Sherlock whispered. "I…Mye-"

Mycroft held up a hand to stop him as he realized how much pain the effort of speaking brought him. His hand gripped Sherlock's shoulder, a pathetic attempt at comfort.

"Just rest," he ordered. "I can take care of it from here."

Sherlock nodded weakly, though he looked as unconvinced as Mycroft felt. As his eyes fell closed and his brother again began to drift away, Mycroft suddenly yearned to be able to talk to him again. To truly know he was alright.

Because he wasn't sure if he could handle this. He still only vaguely knew what was going on. He couldn't even be certain his brother was truly safe.

Shaking his head, Mycroft stood up. This was all too much.

A mobile ringtone caught his attention. It wasn't his own- no, Moran destroyed that phone hours ago. He realized the ringtone was coming from the sweatshirt Sherlock had been wearing. Mycroft picked it up and let Irene Adler's old camera phone fall into hands. He studied it, stunned, before answering.

"How is he?" Irene asked, her voice slightly uneven. She was breathing hard, as though she just paused from a long run.

"Fine," he replied.

He hung up the phone. He couldn't be sure Irene deserved to know more than that. Mycroft still couldn't wrap his head around the thought of his brother and Irene Adler being romantically involved. He still wasn't sure that the relationship was completely innocent and not another one of Irene's traps.

With a heavy sigh Mycroft stepped out into the hallway. He yearned for a bit of fresh air.

But he stopped when he saw the broken figure of John Watson, sunken into the ground with his back against the wall, knees drawn to his chest. Hands clenched into fists and shaking. Eyes rimmed from crying.

He didn't say anything- he knew it wouldn't help. Getting over the fact that Sherlock was alive would be almost as painful as getting over the knowledge that he was dead. Mycroft knew this all too well. He also knew that John wanted nothing to do with him, and he felt so helpless that all he could do was grant him that wish.

Before he left he took one last look into his brother's room. Sherlock lay silently, his eyes open wide as he stared at the wall. He looked so hollow, so shaken by an evil Mycroft could never truly understand.

What he could understand was that his brother was not the same person he was one year ago- and he was nowhere close to being the same person he was two and a half years ago. Some kind of darkness shook him to the core, and perhaps it was because of this reason Sherlock and Irene connected. They found common ground in a world where no one else could ever understand them.

A shaky, muffled, sob echoed through the corridor. Mycroft wasn't sure if John knew he was there to hear him.

None of them, he thought, none of them, were the same as they were before.

And he could never tell Sherlock this, but as he stood there, glancing between the traumatized victims on both sides of the wall, he wasn't sure if things could get better from here.

* * *

><p>Author's Note: We're only a couple of chapters from the end now. I'm 98% sure there will be a sequel, and it will be told from John's POV. He was originally going to have a MUCH bigger part of this story, but between Sherlock's POV, Mycroft's side of the story, and re-introducing Irene there was too much going on already. The sequel will reveal a little more of what John's been going through all this time.<p>

I would really appreciate hearing all of your final thoughts on these last couple of chapters. I know it's been a long journey, and it really means the world to me that there are people who wanted to stick around until the end.


	36. Chapter 36

Warning: Major warning for drug use and references.

* * *

><p>"Sherlock? Sherlock!"<p>

The voices screamed at him desperately, but he was too far gone. His heart burned in his chest, and his back might as well have been on fire. He arched up, grasping the edges of the hospital bed. He couldn't hold on.

"Sherlock, _please_!"

He wanted to be able to cling to that voice, to hold onto the image of his brother standing over him, holding onto his shoulders as he tried to hold him down. Tears ran down his own cheeks as his body fought to get away. His conscious mind slipped and tumbled toward darkness, as simply as if he had fallen down the stairs…

* * *

><p>One Week Ago<p>

_Sherlock took the stairs to the flat two at a time to the tenth floor. He couldn't catch his breath when he reached their door; it was like air refused to refill his lung. His injured hand remained hidden within the sleeve of his sweatshirt as his other pounded against the door. His eyes traced the space between the doorway and floor, searching for the switch of a light, which would indicate Irene was home._

"_Please," he pleaded quietly, shifting from one foot to another, anxious._

_Never before had he yearned so badly for a warm shower and bed. For quiet and peace. Safety._

_Home._

_Squeezing his eyes shut, he begged himself to not go there. He couldn't get lost in that kind of desperation now, not when he was so close…_

"_Oh my God!" Irene screeched when she opened the door._

_She was pushed aside without thought as he rushed through the door. Eyes dashing around the small flat, he tried to regain his bearings. _

"_You're shaking," Irene said, grabbing his arm. _

_Involuntarily, he jerked away. Their eyes met; he warned her not to ask. _

"_Sherlock," she whispered, reaching up to touch the wound on his neck. He flinched, hissing at the sting of her fingertips. _

"_It's fine," he lied._

_He was anything but fine. His chest heaved up and down painfully as he tried to catch his breath. Something was pounding relentlessly against his head; his vision danced in front of his eyes._

"_You're not fine!" Irene cried. She pulled the sleeve of her robe over her wrist and held it against the wound on his neck. When he winced again in pain, he knew he couldn't hide. Their eyes met again; this time, with she warning him not to lie._

"_It's just a graze," he mumbled, sinking against the wall. _

_The only thing that kept him from tumbling to the ground was the firm grip of her hands on his shoulders._

"_And your hand?" She asked, inching his hand away from his chest. _

_He had to look away, too sickened by the amount of blood covering his own fingers._

"_Christ," Irene hissed, "did they try to cut it off?"_

_His eyes shot toward her, and she froze. _

"_God…" she whispered. _

_Her eyes melted with empathy as she brushed away the remaining traces of blood, ignoring the fact that she was ruining her dressing gown. _

"_Sherlock-" she began again._

"_It's fine," he said, trying to muster as much sincerity as he could. He tried to swallow the pain away; somehow, he found a brave smile to offer her. "Nothing I can't handle."_

_Taking her hands in his, he kissed the tips of her knuckles. Then he gently pushed her away, heading to the toilet. He slammed the door in her face and quickly locked it. His hand shook uncontrollably as he reached into his pocket. He could hardly hold onto the bottle of pills as he opened the cap and forced one into the palm of his hands. Eyes closed, bracing himself, he threw the pill back into his mouth and swallowed._

_Relief immediately took over him, though he knew it was all psychological. He was finally able to take a few deep breaths. Hands rested on the sink, he looked up and studied himself in the mirror. It was no wonder Irene panicked. A waterfall of blood drops trailed down his neck. His face was deathly pale, though he knew more from anxiety than injury._

_He nearly died. He came so close. _

_He closed his eyes again, and begged himself to not let the pain and emotion and fear overwhelm him._

_A stinging sensation in his fingers drew his attention to his injured hand. Feeling finally returned to his fingers as he ran his hand under warm water. He closed his eyes once more; he was so exhausted he could fall asleep on the spot. Outside, Irene remained completely silent._

_He knew it was her way of winning. Ignoring her only made the guilt worse. It was bad enough that he disappeared on her for two days. It was even worse that he was lying. Drawing in one last breath, he opened the door. _

_It was all he could do to keep his hand from shaking as he sank against the door frame. His eyes inched toward her, ridden with shame. _

"_I'm sorry," he whispered hoarsely, "just a bit in shock."_

"_Yeah," she agreed. Her eyes wondered down to his blood-dried fingers. "How's your hand?"_

"_It looks a lot worse than it is."_

_Their eyes met, and he nearly collapsed. He hated this hold she seemed to have on him. He knew it wasn't fair to feel guilt or shame when it came to Irene Adler. He knew the probability of her abandoning him, disappearing forever, and leaving him wondering if any of this was real._

_Still, he couldn't understand it. _

_Worse, part of him didn't want to._

_And that terrified him. _

_Carefully, as though waiting for his permission, she reached up and touched his check._

"_You're freezing," she whispered._

_Her hand felt like ice against his skin, but somehow, this only made him feel warmer. He tensed, and he wasn't sure if he wanted to bolt or step closer. She made the decision for him when he leaned forward and captured her lips in his. _

_It certainly wasn't the first time they kissed, but each time he felt more uncomfortable. He hesitated when she deepened the kiss, and he knew what bothered him. Fear. Fear of intimacy, of trust, of abandonment. _

_But Irene didn't didn't let him stop. She held onto his shoulder as she pulled him closer, deepening the kiss even more. As her tongue explored his mouth his throat seemed to close up, and he had to remind himself to-_

"_Breathe," she hissed into his ear._

_His hands relaxed against his shoulder as he let out a shaky breath. Then her lips were on his again. Her hands, roaming across his back. He could hear his own heart pounding, and somewhere in his mind an alert signal was going off, warning him not to proceed. He knew where this was headed, and he was petrified._

_But he didn't stop. _

"_No need to be afraid," Irene muttered, moaning ever so slightly as she kissed him desperately. _

_He shuddered. Her effort to speak sounded almost painful._

_This did nothing for his anxiety. Neither did being pushed further against the wall as her hands tugged off his sweatshirt._

"_I thought you were dead," Irene confessed, breathless._

"_I didn't know you cared."_

_Their eyes locked. He wasn't sure if he was being completely daft or if his doubts were simply ridiculous. But it had been so long since he was this close to trusting someone that he was itching to give in. All these thoughts raced through his mind at a frightening speed, and this only made him want this more._

_His eyes fell closed, and he gave in._

* * *

><p><em>2014<em>

The room seemed to dance before him as his eyes fluttered open. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't make sense of anything. Lights blinded his vision, and he was terrified.

He felt like this wasn't real.

Then John appeared over him, and panic truly settled in. An orchestra of frantic beeping sounded off from behind him, matching the uneven rising and falling of his chest.

He still couldn't breathe, and he couldn't understand why.

"_Sherlock."_

John's voice, trying to talk to him.

John's hand rested on his shoulder, but being restrained only made him more desperate to move.

Mycroft appeared on his other job, helping John hold him down. Sherlock's head swept from side to side, searching for answers.

"You're wearing an oxygen mask," John explained. His voice sounded hollow and fall away. "I'm going to remove it. Just breathe slowly, okay? Deep breaths. In, out."

Sherlock nodded and braced himself against the pillows, waiting for the rush of cool air to hit his face.

When it did he tried his best to remember John's orders.

"Sherlock-" Mycroft warned, his hand now rested on his shoulder.

Sherlock grasped his brother's forearms, pinching his skin so hard red marks appeared. If it bothered Mycroft, he didn't let it show. Instead Mycroft placed his free hand on Sherlock's chest.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said again, simply trying to get his attention.

His eyes darted around the room. The swerving vision made it difficult to focus in on the faces hovering above him. He couldn't be certain if it was only John and Mycroft in the room and there were just two sets of them, or if there were two other people in the room.

The grip on his shoulder tightened, and he was finally able to concentrate.

_In, out._

"Good," John muttered, as he ran around checking his vitals.

Sherlock's eyes remained locked with his brother's as John checked his pulse and blood pressure. Instead of concern, Mycroft seemed to be examining, accusing him of something he wasn't aware of.

Then he remembered.

It wasn't like Mycroft had a reason to feel sorry for him. The guilt of what he did made him feel so ill that Sherlock was certain he might vomit. He felt even worse as his eyes roamed Mycroft's own injuries, which John must have patched up at some point.

But then Mycroft nodded.

And he almost felt that was his brother's silent way of forgiving him. Or at least trying to.

Their eyes finally diverted as John turned to him again, and sighed.

"You went into cardiac arrest," John explain. Sherlock's eyes widened. Now he understood why Mycroft looked so in shock and John looked so exhausted. He just saved his life. Sherlock…did you know you have an arrhythmia?"

His eyes narrowed in confusion and he turned to Mycroft for help. His brother simply stared back at him, his own eyes full of wonder. Knowing that Mycroft knew just as little as he did only made him feel worse.

At last, he shook his head.

John's eyebrows furrowed; he was clearly disappointed.

"I want to give you something to help wean off the cocaine effects to see if that will help your heart," John explained. "But I need to know- I need you to be completely, one hundred percent honest with me, Sherlock. Is there anything you've been taking?"

Both pairs of eyes stared at him, searching for any hint of lies. Sherlock swallowed, knowing he was caught. He couldn't look at either of them, as he spoke up the best he could.

"Morphine."

Mycroft froze. John's eyes widened. Sherlock swallowed back the urge to throw up. He knew why they were panicking. John's eyes fell closed.

"Sherlock, you are aware that if we tried to get you off the cocaine without knowing that you could have died," John said quietly.

Sherlock could only offer a stiff nod.

"Why?"

He turned toward his brother's voice. He had never heard Mycroft sound so broken. Tears actually tore at his own eyes as he desperately tried to explain:

"Moran…he…he gave me them. I was injured, in Venezuela, and then in Argentina I got shot at and…I didn't want to do it anymore. I haven't just been in Europe. Moran…he sent me all around the world." He closed his eyes as tears filled them. He held his palms against his face, breathing deeply to hide a sob. He knew it was the effects of the drugs that were making his mind race and causing words to fall out of him senselessly. "I couldn't get help. I couldn't do _anything_. I began to lose my mind. I...I was terrified I was losing my mind."

"You told me you weren't using," Mycroft breathed, his words trembling like cracks in broken ice.

"I've lied to you," Sherlock admitted. He felt like he might be sick. He wanted to be, just to feel better. "I…I went back to Vienna and they weren't happy to see me."

John's eyes flickered down to the bruising littering his stomach.

"Irene tried to warn me. Everything went wrong," he mumbled. "_Everything's wrong_. One last chance-"

He knew he was making no sense now. He knew they had no clue what he was going on about.

John looked like he himself was just stabbed in the stomach.

"John-" he choked. "I never wanted, I never _intended_…" he was aware that the beeping behind him sped up again, and he was aware of John's eyes widening with worry. But he didn't stop. "I didn't want to. I was stuck. I…I…"

_Hurt. God this hurts._

He grasped at his ribs, and suddenly he could feel the pain. A rush of hot fire seemed to swarm through him until the sensation filled his stomach.

He screamed. And screamed. And _screamed_.

Until everything went black.

* * *

><p>Author's Note: We're getting there. I know it's been a long journey. If there's anything you're confused about feel free to ask me, but don't worry about being confused. With the way I decided to tell this part of the story it's meant to be confusing. I purposefully wrote everything so that it's all in bits and pieces, and it will all make sense by the end. Promise!<p> 


	37. Chapter 37

The longer Mycroft sat still, the more nervous he became. He wasn't used to sitting still. There was always something to be done- always something he could do. But now he was trapped in a medical practice in the dead of night with John Watson, who was fighting the devil to be able to save his brother's life. And there was nothing he could do that would make a difference.

He knew it was bad when John wanted to wake Sherlock up to interrogate him about drugs. He knew it was bad when the doctor turned a shade of pale that was almost whiter than his brother. He knew it was really bad when John practically shoved him out of the room, shielding him from the horror inside.

There was a desperate, ill, look in John's eyes then. A look he knew all too well from wondering crime scenes, bombing sites, and wreckage. _You don't need to see this._ John was trying to protect him.

It was a long half hour before the door to Sherlock's room opened. Mycroft didn't look up; he didn't want to intimidate the doctor, who had gone to hell and back that night, just like the rest of them. What he wanted was an honest to God opinion of what was going on.

John sank down into the chair next to him without a word. He let out a deep sigh, almost a sob, and dropped his head in his hands. He just sat there for a moment, looking so stiff and drained that Mycroft's own heart stopped beating for a moment as he awaited the bad news.

"He's fine."

Mycroft's eyes widened. He let out the breath he was holding in. John's words were muttered into the palms of his hands and hardly audible, but it was enough. At last John looked up and gazed at him with tired eyes.

"He's fine for now," he said. _Oh._ "I'm worried about the arrythemia. I don't know how he's going to do this detox. Everything's going to hit him all at once: the pain he's in, the withdrawal, whatever trauma he's been through. It's going to be bloody hard on him."

He nodded. All these thoughts had already raced through his mind a million times that night. There was still a matter of what Sherlock had actually done for Moran. The fact that he had slipped back into his old habits didn't offer much hope. He knew very well that John was right- whatever Sherlock was doing, whatever his motives, it wasn't pleasant. Adjusting to his old life was going to be extremely difficult.

But that was a challenge for after the removal of the tubes and wires tide down to his brother's chest. There was only one thing that really bothered him now, and it was something he never thought he'd have to worry about. Not when his brother was only thirty-four years old.

"His heart?" Mycroft asked weakly.

He paled, and a great deal of empathy appeared in John's eyes.

"Everything looks fine, except for the arrhythmia. It's more than likely caused by the drugs. We can do some experimenting with medications if it doesn't improve, but I just worry what that will be like on him, considering the amount of withdrawal he has to go through. The next few hours will determine the best course to take."

Again Mycroft nodded, without really understanding him. It wasn't the medical information that was stumping him, it was the fact that all of this was happening to his brother. It was moments like this where he couldn't help but to retreat back to his fourteen year old self, back when everything seemed so innocent.

Before he knew what he was doing, he was telling the story to John:

"When Sherlock was seven years old he broke his arm," Mycroft spoke up, his chin resting carefully against the tips of his fingers. "He fell out of a tree in the yard. Mother kept telling him not to climb it, but he wouldn't listen. He was too bold, too brave, and too adventurous for his own good. When he fell Mother broke down in tears, and I never understood why. She had a kind of mental breakdown, and it seemed just the very thought of something happening to her son ate her alive. I never understood why. Until now. Sherlock's not my son…but I'm the closest thing to a father he's ever had. A real one, anyway. There's no one left to care about him but me, and he knows that. He doesn't understand the consequences of the choices he makes. He doesn't understand how other people feel and _why_ they feel. No one ever taught him that. So when I look down on him in that room, and see him lying there, being kept alive by machines and IVs and wires, I think back to that seven year old kid…and I wish nothing more than for the chance to start over."

Suddenly it became difficult to speak, almost painful. His eyes diverted to the floor as John stared at him, stunned and speechless. Mycroft knew he had to continue. After thinking through all the ramifications of their actions that night, after considering every detail of the past two and a half years, he knew the danger they were in. And it was only fair to warn John.

"John…there's a very real possibility that my career will be in jeopardy once the public knows Sherlock is still alive. Before then, I'm going to do everything I can to ensure my brother's safety. And yours." John nodded, appreciative, but he clearly didn't understand. "I won't leave you alone here. I don't know exactly what kind of danger Sherlock was working with…for all I know what we saw tonight is not truly the end. But I must ask you to realize how timely this is, and how I must deal with it now."

John nodded again, looking uncomfortable. He knew he was thinking of the body. Instead of explaining, he took out his mobile.

"I have a phone call to make. I'll have someone here to watch over you and Sherlock, someone we can trust."

The doctor remained silent. His eyes were vacant, and Mycroft couldn't be sure he took in any of what he just said. Mycroft turned away without another word and stepped down the corridor for some privacy. He slipped into a nook between the main hall and a back doorway. A business card turned over in his fingertips as he dialed the number and closed his eyes.

"Hello?"

Mycroft swallowed nervously upon hearing the voice. Though he and the man on the other line shared a kind of mutual respect for each other, he in no way owed Mycroft any favors. He didn't even owe Sherlock any favors. He was holding on to the one hope that somehow, he still _believed_. At last, he spoke up:

"D.I. Lestrade, this is Mycroft Holmes. You once told my brother he could call you if there was anything you could do for him. I was wondering if that deal's still on the table."

He drew in a deep breath and waited for the reply.

* * *

><p>Author's Note: I know this chapter's way too short...it probably should have been included in the last chapter. There will be more about Mycroft's job later. I just think that even Mycroft would have to answer to someone about everything that has been going on with Moran, no matter how powerful he is.<p> 


	38. Chapter 38

When Sherlock came to the first thing he noticed was no pain. A great wave of relief swept over him; he had never felt more grateful in his life. Everything seemed a bit brighter. The world seemed at peace, filled only with the soft beeping of the hospital machinery monitoring him.

"He's awake," someone whispered.

As his eyes bat open slowly, he could make out the figures of John and_ Lestrade_. Sherlock froze as his eyes locked with the D.I.

"Sherlock," John said, guiding him toward his voice.

He couldn't take his eyes off Lestrade. He could tell everything that happened from him in the past two and a half years just from the dark orbs gazing back at him. Demoted then promoted again. Divorced. Depression. Health scare- heart attack possible, blood pressure probable.

"How do you feel?"

Sherlock was relieved to hear how calm John sounded. Not only was that a sign that everything was okay, but the anxiety of knowing how angry his friend was did nothing to help his heart.

"I feel…" he paused, taking in everything. Then he realized: "I don't feel anything."

John snorted.

"Good, then the drugs are working nicely," he said.

Stepping around the side of the bed, John adjusted the IV strip Sherlock was attached to. He tested out his arms and legs; though he couldn't feel any pain it still took entirely too much effort to move them. Though his body seemed to have trouble adjusting coming out of deep sleep his mind raced more than ever.

"What happened?" He rasped.

The more he looked around the room, noting the new set of wired attached to his chest and the defibrillator pushed against the wall.

"Cardiac arrest," John said, looking him straight in the eye. Swallowing nervously, Sherlock nodded, pretending like he understood. John was acting a little too doctor and a little less like his friend than he would have liked. "You were out cold for three minutes before I could wake you. Do you remember that?"

A sickening fill sank deep into the pit of his stomach. More information that he had no recollection of. He shook his head.

"I gave you something to help the pain and steady the heart rate," John continued. "You might be cold…I've been trying to keep you cool, it helps with the recovery."

"Thanks," he mumbled, feeling perfectly useless. "I'm sorry."

John blinked.

"Sherlock, you went into cardiac arrest, there's nothing to be sorry about."

He could feel Lestrade's eyes narrow in on him, begging to differ. Wanting to buy as much time before he had to confront the D.I., he asked:

"Mycroft?"

His weak voice prompted John to offer him a cup of water, which he accepted graciously.

"He left, to take care of things."

The way John responded indicated that he didn't exactly approve of Mycroft running off.

"Sherlock, he's very concerned," John went on, "none of us really know what's going on. Mycroft seemed pretty disoriented when he left…he wasn't even sure if all this is over."

Closing his eyes, Sherlock remembered why he felt so anxious.

_Irene._

"Phone," he demanded, holding a hand out to John.

"You've got to be kidding me!" John snapped.

"John!" He pleaded. God, his voice sounded worse than before.

Letting out a dramatic sigh, John handed over his mobile. Sherlock quickly typed out a text and handed the mobile back to John with his eyes closed, as though it were too painful to watch.

_Breathe._

His heart was racing way too fast.

"Sherlock?" John asked carefully.

Even in his panic he could see that John was torn between being the doctor and being the hurt friend, but his mind was far too foggy to deal with that right now.

"Mycroft," he rasped, "he needs to know what's going on."

"_He_ needs to know?"

Sherlock's eyes shot to Lestrade, who spoke up first time.

"Mycroft needs to know?" Lestrade said, laughing this time. "Right, well something must have happened in the past two and a half years because never have I heard you _want_ to reach out to your brother."

Closing his eyes, Sherlock let out a groan.

"I don't have time for this!" He shot. "You don't understand-"

"No, I bloody well don't!" Lestrade exclaimed.

He let out a deep sigh as their eyes met for the first time in almost three years. Sherlock took a moment to consider that the last time he saw Lestrade, he arrested him.

_No wonder he doesn't trust me._

"Do you think I did it?" Sherlock asked, staring straight at the D.I.

Lestrade blinked and placed his hands on his hips.

"Did what?" Lestrade demanded.

"The kids, the last case!" Sherlock said. "Did you really think I did it?"

Mouth agape, Lestrade threw an uncertain glance to John. The doctor looked just as confused.

"Of course not," Lestrade stated.

He wasn't sure why, but a wave a relief washed over him. Not that he actually thought Lestrade believed he was guilty…

"Then you trust me," Sherlock said. "You know you do."

"Sherlock, I thought you were dead," Lestrade said, "John thought you were dead. You jumped off a rooftop _in front of him_ and crashed into the ground. Sherlock, he went into therapy again-" Sherlock's eyes flashed to John, who shifted around, clearly uncomfortable. "We've been through hell. You have no idea what kind of fallout I had to deal with. What do you think that stunt did to my career, Sherlock? You have no idea how hard I had to work to get this city to trust me again!"

Sherlock's eyes darkened as they returned to Lestrade, but he couldn't find the heart to argue. As much as he wanted to disagree, he knew Lestrade wasn't wrong. The D.I. was extremely lucky to still have a career in London.

"He's the one in the hospital bed," John spoke up quietly. Sherlock stared at him, stunned. "I want to hear what he has to say."

Lestrade simply stared at him as his eyes met his former flatmate's. Ignoring Lestrade, his eyes remained locked with John's throughout his story.

"I gave my life for you," he began quietly. John's eyes widened, but he allowed him to continue. "Moriarty had three snipers- one for you, one for Lestrade, one for Mrs. Hudson."

"Not Mycroft?" John whispered.

Sherlock shook his head.

"Not Mycroft," he said. "Just my friends. But Moriarty proposed a trade. My life for yours. He shot himself, right there and front of me-" he shuddered as he heard the bang of the gun in his mind, "and I had to jump. But I tricked him. I tricked everyone."

"Sherlock…" John paled a bit. "Why couldn't you just tell me? Or Lestrade- he's police."

"I couldn't," Sherlock confessed. "It would only put your lives in more danger. This goes far beyond Moriarty. Farther than you can ever know."

"Try us," Lestrade said.

Sherlock swallowed nervously. He knew it was partly because of the drugs rushing through him, but anxiety shook him to the core.

"There's a lot of this I can't tell you," he admitted. Even he could appreciate the kind of trouble his brother would be in if his spy-days stories got out to the public. "But this is about Mycroft. All of it. Moriarty was a pawn…just like me. That man, Moran, he was old enemies with my brother. This is all some game between them, and I got caught in the middle. Even after Moriarty, Moran wasn't working alone. I traveled the world breaking down his team, but eventually the only way to truly get to him was from the inside. I had to get him to trust me, to think I changed."

By now, Lestrade's eyes were wide as he stared at Sherlock.

"Moran," Lestrade said quietly. "The bloke you were with the night we met."

"Sherlock, what's he talking about?" John demanded, his voice shaking.

He drew in a deep breath. It was hard to fathom exactly how little John knew.

"I'll explain it to you, all of it, I promise," Sherlock said, "but I've got to talk to Mycroft."

John looked like he wanted to protest, but he remained silent. Suddenly, John's mobile buzzed. Without word, he reached for the phone and handed it to Sherlock. He held his breath as he read the text.

"What does it say?" Lestrade asked.

"120 Baker Street," Sherlock muttered.

"That's right across the street from 221B," John said.

Sherlock began removing the covers of the bed without explanation.

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed, reaching out to stop him. "You're recovering from cardiac arrest, you can't go!"

"This isn't over," Sherlock said as he painfully removed the wires from his body. "I have to go before, before-"

He breathed in deeply, trying to ignore the sharp pain shooting through him. The drugs were beginning to wear off- this would be more difficult than he thought.

"No," John ordered. "Tell me what you need, and we'll do it."

Raising his eyes to his friend, Sherlock begged him for his understanding.

"I've got to go," he breathed. "I'm sorry."

He diverted his eyes as he pushed passed John, too ashamed of what he was doing. He knew it wasn't fair. He knew both men had every right to be angry with him, and he knew he owed them the truth.

He stopped, lingering by the doorway.

"I'll explain everything," he offered quietly, "promise."

John looked like he didn't know what to believe, but he let Sherlock go without a word. As he stumbled out of the room he realized that he might have risked anything left between them right then. When he reached the hallway he leaned against the wall and closed his eyes.

He could only hope it would be worth it.


	39. Chapter 39

Sherlock drew in a deep breath as he looked around Baker Street for the first time in years. He was surprised to realize how much everything looked the same. He stood only a few hundred feet away from 221B. Just a few hundred feet lived Mrs. Hudson and her afternoon tea. A smile swept across his face for the first time in days. Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he turned around. Knowing that life was just out of reach now gave him enough strength to look away.

Although he never stepped inside the building on the other side of Baker Street he had spent enough time examining it from his window to know where he was going, but what he found on the inside was unexpected. The entire building looked shut down. The first floor was completely vacant, with boarded up rooms, so he made his way to the second. An open doorway and beam of sunlight showed him where he should be heading. He stepped carefully, peering slightly over the doorway instead of entering the room.

He froze when he saw who occupied it.

"Irene!" He gasped, rushing toward the body collapsed on the floor.

Irene was pale, far too pale. Her skin was freezing to the touch. Her heart beat was slow, but still strong.

_Chloroform._

He could smell it in the room. On her. Swirling around, he was immediately on guard. His breath hitched when he realized he was right to do so.

_Noe._

His body was stone. Shallow breaths filled the room as his eyes darted around, desperate for a way out of this. It appeared, at least, that they were alone. A sniper rifle was in Noe's hand, rested by his side. He noticed a space by the window where Noe had prepared a set up. Straight across the street was 221B.

Noe began speaking to him in German but stopped short of finishing his sentence. He grinned.

"Funny how a language can become so lost when you don't practice it," Noe said, his English tinted with a German accent. Sherlock tensed as the criminal glanced down to Irene and smirked. "She worked so hard to save you. It was sweet, really. But in the end she played both sides- and badly. But no worries, you two will have plenty of time to spend getting to know each other…in hell."

Suddenly the rifle was pointed directly at his face. His heart skipped a beat. His eyes, wide and horrified. Hands, frozen into fists."

"Don't!" Sherlock exclaimed, holding out his arms and taking a step back.

Noe roared with laughter.

"You think you can talk your way out of this?" Noe said. The criminal's eyes trailed to the window. "I believe I'm the only criminal in the world out there not in jail right now. No thanks to you. I'm sure your D.I. friend is happy."

With a few calming breaths, Sherlock managed to regain his strength. He glanced toward his old flat, to the picture window where he spent so many days playing the violin.

I can do this. I'm too close not to.

"It seems pretty cowardly," he began coldly, "finishing me off by hiding out in a window across from my flat."

Noe's eyes narrowed in on him, examining the scar on his face and the blood on his skin.

"Looks like you've already been pretty beaten," Noe shot. "Moran did a number on you."

"Moran's dead."

Noe froze. Sherlock grinned.

"You had no idea, did you?" Sherlock said. Suddenly, he knew what his angle should be. "No one thought you were important enough to tell. Right, well, Moran's dead. You're fighting no one. Your friends are all in prison. You've _lost_."

With his hand on the gun, Noe tensed.

"I'm the one with the gun," Noe stated, obviously having to fight to keep calm.

In one quick move, Sherlock swept a hand behind him and revealed John's revolver. He had just enough time to swipe it from the doctor as he stumbled out of the medical practice. John never noticed, of course.

"Clever," Noe hissed. "Did you really think faking your death _again_ was the way out?" Sherlock swallowed nervously, unwilling to admit he sincerely thought his plan was brilliant. "How do you foresee this ending? Me in a body bag and you going back to your life at 221B? Maybe you'll even join the police again. But wait! No one here trusts you!"

Hands tightening around the gun, Sherlock took a subconscious step forward. Noe remained in place, unintimidated.

"Whatever you think is going to come out of this, Mr. Holmes…let me give you a fair warning. It. Won't. Happen."

For a moment, Sherlock couldn't breathe. He didn't want to admit that he knew Noe was right. Especially judging by how his reunion with John went, he was faced with the reality of accepting that John no longer wanted anything to do with anything.

"That doesn't mean that I won't do whatever it takes to keep them all safe."

His finger curled around the trigger, but before he could shoot the crack of a bullet snapped through the air. Noe stared at him, wide eyed for a split second before falling. Sherlock gasped for breath, reeling in shock. The gun remained in the air in front of him as he tried to decide what he should do.

A round of weak coughs drew him in the right direction. He collapsed on the ground next to Irene, whose eyes were fluttering open slowly. Her pupils immediately found his.

"I tried to stop him," she whispered.

"It's okay," he said quietly. He squeezed her wrist. "Stay down."

Irene nodded, keeping her eyes on him as he stepped carefully toward the window. He peered outside, studying his old flat. No one was at the picture window. No more gunshots sounded.

The ring of a mobile phone brought his attention back to Irene. She looked toward her pocket, allowing him to answer. His hands shook slightly as he took the call.

"Get out of there, now."

He stopped, stunned to hear Mycroft's voice.

"What-" he began, but his brother cut him off.

"There's a car waiting for you out front," Mycroft continued. "Get in."

The line went dead. Sherlock stared at the mobile, unable to comprehend what was happening. His eyes trailed to 221B, wondering…

Irene stayed close to him as the car drove them away from the city's center. Sherlock interrogated the driver, who remained silent, as his arm wrapped around Irene.

"I don't think you realize how serious this is!" Sherlock shot. "I need to know what's going on. There could still be people out there-"

A tone went off from his pocket. Sherlock took out Irene's mobile, opening it to a text.

_There aren't._

Eyes darkening, he fell silent.

"We're here," the driver announced. He turned around to look at Sherlock. "You're to go inside and wait."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Mycroft thinks he's the kidnapper again," he muttered.

He lifted Irene slightly, letting her lean on him as they climbed out of the car. When the driver pulled away, Sherlock looked up at the flat building they were at.

"Lestrade's place," he realized.

Irene looked at him, confused.

"Are you okay?" He asked her, raising a hand to her face.

Reaching up, she pushed his hands away.

"Your past is about to collide with what's going on now," Irene said, struggling to find her voice. "What happened between us wasn't real. As soon as you start adjusting to being back in London you're going to find yourself wondering…did any of that actually happen? And you're going to have to pretend it didn't, for their sakes. They're expecting you to be the same person you used to be, and you know, and I know that you're very much not that person. But for their sakes…you've got to be strong."

Sherlock stared at her, struggling to breathe. He had never heard her speak so honestly. He never expected her to. It only raised his fear that she wanted to run away.

Suddenly her lips were on his and he embraced her, knowing very well this might be the last time she saw him. When they broke apart an empty pit fell in his stomach. His hands shook as he clung to her, unwilling to let her go just yet.

"If you come inside I can offer you protection," he said quietly, hardly able to find the strength to speak.

A sad smile swept across her face.

"When has that plan ever worked out, Mr. Holmes?"

She gazed at him, _pitying him_, and he knew she was right. He knew her best option was to run and hide. He knew she had no place in his life in London.

He still didn't even understand why he was attracted to her.

_What have I become?_

A kind smile crossed her face. Though she looked exhausted, defeated, she looked ready to bolt.

"You won," she whispered. "Congratulations."

With that she turned away, managing to escape him with no signs that she was ever hurt. As he watched her go part of him wanted to run after her, join her, because he was too much of a coward to go inside and face what he had done.

But instead he sighed, lifting his head back slightly and trailing his eyes toward the sky, searching for hope.

It was only when he looked down that he realized he had Irene Adler's mobile in his hands, and he smiled.

And so their game continued.

* * *

><p>Author's Note: I know this is short, but I thought Irene's departure stood well as a chapter on its own. I know it may seem a bit abrupt but, well, that's Irene Adler for you. The next chapter will probably be the last...unless I get too sad about ending this and decide to drag it out even longer. It's okay to still be confused about what's going on. The last chapter will be a big wrap up and explanation...especially since Lestrade and John really have no clue what's going on either. It's been a fun ride, and I'm so grateful for all of you that have stuck with this! I would appreciate any and all thoughts as we move to the end of the story.<p> 


	40. Chapter 40

Author's Note: Well this is it, the very last chapter. I truly hope that you have enjoyed reading this story, and I hope you will take a moment to read the longer author's note at the end. Enjoy!_  
><em>

* * *

><p><em>2007<em>

"I don't like this."

"You're over reacting."

"Sherlock, I'm not overreacting!" Mycroft exclaimed. "I told you this would happen!"

"I'm working with the police- of course it's going to happen!"

Through the reflection in the glass he could see Sherlock sitting up in his hospital bed, glaring at him. It was one in the morning and the rain still hadn't stopped. Mycroft drew in a deep breath, burying his hands deep into his pockets; it was freezing by the window. He forced himself to turn around and face his little brother.

Maybe it was only a sprained wrist and a cut on his forehead. Maybe he was only overreacting. But what he did know was this is only just the beginning.

"You're too young, you're too untrained, to be out running around with wanted _murderers_," Mycroft shot.

"And yet I solved the case!" Sherlock cried.

As they glared at each other, Mycroft realized his brother's eyes were actually _glistening_. He couldn't be sure if it was from fighting the pain or the emotion.

"I solved the case," Sherlock reiterated, lowering his voice a bit. "Not one trained professional on Lestrade's team solved the case, and I did. I solved a case that's had every officer and news writer in the country scratching their heads for months, and you're the only person who hasn't said thank you."

The room fell silent as Sherlock caught his breath. Mycroft swallowed, considering his words carefully.

"What you did was impressive, Sherlock," Mycroft admitted. "But you overestimated the weight and height of your suspect, so that when he leapt out at you from nowhere he was twice your size. You were unprepared, you panicked-"

"I'm sorry," Sherlock interrupted, "I'm sorry that he had a gun and I didn't. We could change that, you know-"

"_No!"_

Mycroft's voice roared so loudly that nurses passing outside Sherlock's room stopped and looked. He offered them a fake smile and waited until they continued walking- but Sherlock beat him to it.

"I didn't mean it," Sherlock muttered.

"You did," Mycroft replied. He closed his eyes. "This case was too much for you."

Sherlock looked around, incredulous.

"But I _solved it!"_

"I was able to manage the clearance you needed to stay on this case," Mycroft said quietly, "I'll think twice the next time you ask me to help you put your life in danger."

He couldn't look at the disappointment on his brother's face as he walked away. The beeps of hospital machinery echoed as he stepped into the hall and leaned against a wall. He was about to close his eyes again, desperate for a moment of serenity, when his mobile beeped. He opened it to read:

_It's the right decision._

* * *

><p>"I don't think he's coming."<p>

Mycroft ignored John, who was practically breathing down his neck, as he gazed out Lestrade's window. He was staring straight into another set of flats.

"Mycroft, are you even listening to me?" He wasn't. John had been shouting at him for nearly a half hour now, and he hadn't heard a word he said. "I don't think he's coming. He's not going to bother to show up. I don't understand why you're holding me here-"

"John-"

He couldn't help but to turn around with John at Lestrade's quiet interjection. Lestrade stared intently at the floors as he sat on the edge of his sofa. His eyes were wide with horror, as though he still hadn't been able to wrap his mind around what was going on.

"Don't you get it, Greg?" John snapped, storming toward Lestrade and shoving an accusing finger toward Mycroft. "We mean nothing to these people."

"Shut up."

John fell silent. Based on the look of pure shock on his face he looked like he had just been betrayed by everyone he had ever known.

Perhaps he had.

"Greg-" John attempted quietly.

"John-" Lestrade shot, getting to his feet. He wasn't staring at John, but at Mycroft. "I know Sherlock well enough to know that if he does something there's a damn good reason why he does it. And although I don't know Mycroft very well, I know he's his brother, and if there's one person Sherlock's going to trust above everything else, it's his own brother, who just happens to be powerful enough to start world war three from this bloody room!"

This brought John to complete silence for a moment. Even Mycroft was in shock as he stared at the D.I. He was correct, they hardly knew each other, but they had always shared a mutual understanding over Sherlock. Lestrade offered him a nod of understanding; Mycroft's lips remained pursed as he stared at him, a grim look on his face.

"I'm sorry," John breathed. "I guess I underestimated the amount of trust Sherlock and I had as _friends_, flatmates, and bloody business partners!"

"He's right."

They all turned at the sound of Sherlock's voice, which although hoarse still boomed with its usual strength. The smallest of smiles peered from Mycroft's lips. John's face was a ghostly pale as he stared at his former flatmate.

"Lestrade's right," Sherlock continued, stepping into the flat. "There came a time when I knew Moriarty's game could only end one way."

Mycroft was relieved to see that, aside from his previous injuries, his brother was unharmed; but he did look exhausted. He didn't hesitate to take a seat on Lestrade's sofa. He stared the ground a moment, fingertips raised to his chin, before continuing.

"In a matter of life or death I had no choice but to turn to the one person who could truly help me," he turned to John, forcing him to meet his eyes. "I'm so sorry, John. But your life was already in danger, and I couldn't risk it anymore."

"My life-"

"Your life, Lestrade's life, Mrs. Hudson's life. Three snipers, three guns, pointed right at you. And you never knew."

This time, Lestrade paled. John collapsed in an armchair across from them and dropped his head into his hands.

"What about Mycroft?" John whispered.

All eyes shifted to him. Mycroft stiffened; he had prepared for this.

"Because I was the pawn." Everyone turned back to Sherlock. "I was wrong about it all. This wasn't Moriarty's game. If you ever wondered why one man could have such a great vendetta against someone he didn't even know, how he could commit kidnapping and murder just to get at him- it was because I wasn't that man. It was Mycroft, and it's a game that's gone on for a long time."

Suddenly Sherlock winced and clutched at his side. Mycroft took a subconscious step forward and was shocked when no one else did the same.

"Get him some ice," he ordered John. His demand was met with a glare. "You're a doctor, John, get him some ice."

John stared at him for a moment longer before shaking his head, disgusted. He stood silently and headed to the kitchen.

"Are you alright?" Lestrade asked quietly, placing a hand on Sherlock's chest.

Sherlock paled a bit as he nodded.

"Fine," he rasped. Sherlock's sunken eyes trailed to Lestrade. "I appreciate you more than you know."

Lestrade let out a hollow laugh.

"I think that's just the pain meds talking."

John appeared with two bags of ice, a glass of water, and bottle of pills.

"Here," John said, placing one of the bags of ice against the wound. He lifted Sherlock's sweatshirt slightly to confirm there was no blood. "The stitches didn't rip, you just wore yourself out a bit. This is for your head." The two men glared at each other. "It's hurting, I can tell- take it."

Sherlock accepted the second bag of ice and held it against his forehead. As he did his eyes shut, appreciative of the relief.

"Need I remind you that you just took a knife to the chest?" His eyes shot up to the jagged scar running down Sherlock's cheek. "Not to mention the face?"

With a weak nod, Sherlock silently thanked him.

"You should rest," Mycroft suggested.

"No," Sherlock shot. "They've waited two and a half years. They deserve to know."

"Here," John said quietly, handing him the pills. "They're okay to take, I promise. I brought them from the practice."

Sherlock took them without argument. Afterward he handed John the ice and leaned into the sofa.

"The man, at Thames?" John asked.

"Sebastian Moran," Sherlock replied, staring his friend directly in the eye. "His story started out as simple as yours, John, caught up in the wrong place at the wrong time. He got caught up in a terrorist-type cell Mycroft was hunting down as a young man trying to work his way up the government ladder. Long story short…Mycroft won."

Their eyes met briefly, and he knew Sherlock understood his silent appreciation of him not going into the details.

"Moran became yet another victim of the government, shoved off into a room somewhere with four white walls, never to be seen again," Sherlock continued. "But it turned out he learned more than he let on. Mycroft used him for information- used him up until the moment he shot him."

John blinked, and Mycroft held his breath, hoping he wouldn't question-

"When you say 'used him for information'?" Lestrade asked.

"Made deals with," Mycroft replied. He turned away, not up to facing their curiosity. "He means I made deals with Moran. For years."

"You made deals with a terrorist?" John repeated.

Mycroft looked him straight in the eye.

"Moran was working with a group which targeted individual leaders of various governments across the globe. When I-" he stopped short, remembering not to go into the details. "Moran was on the run for some time, during which time I was told to use whatever means necessary to get him back."

"What happened?" Lestrade asked, looking terrified, as a detective should at that moment.

"He made the game personal," Sherlock said, "and so it began."

No one spoke. No one questioned him. Straight faced, Mycroft fought- as always- not to be overwhelmed by the memories threatening to fight their way back.

"I became the new target," Sherlock continued quietly. "Moran went off the radar. He went undercover as a lost, young, homeless man, much like myself at that time."

"Oh my god," Lestrade breathed, holding his arm to his mouth. "The bloke I arrested-"

Sherlock nodded.

"He learned everything he needed to know about me in that time we knew each other," he continued. "He learned my strengths…my weaknesses. He would later know how to use these against me- against my brother."

His brother conveniently left out the part where Moran ruined his life by getting him hooked on the drugs.

"I don't get it, though," John said, "why us? Why now?"

"A final ultimatum," Mycroft stated quietly. "Back when you and Sherlock were flatmates, I had breaking down Moran to an art. I had three of his biggest allies in federal prisons in three different countries. These were some of the most violent men on the planet, and Moran wanted to make a move. He's been rounding up the troops for a decade."

"Are you kidding me?" Lestrade said. "This is all some big government takeover conspiracy?"

"What else would it be, Lestrade?" Sherlock said. "Drugs? Money? It's the power that makes it all worth it."

"All those men we caught this week," Lestrade said, "all those criminals…were they apart of this deal?"

"It seems Moran was able to gain a bigger following than we feared. This…wasn't going to be a straight out takeover. More like a slow death. There are ways..." he paused, closing his eyes, not wanting to think of it.

"Then what was the deal in London today?" Lestrade said, eyes wide. "Christ, we're not talking a terrorist attack, are we?"

At those works Sherlock paled even more, if possible. He looked almost green in the face, like he would be ill.

"I decided to use Moran's methods against him," Sherlock whispered. "The only way I could truly beat him was to get on the inside. I tricked him. A big magic trick. I got on the inside of some of his biggest rings…took control of it all."

Mycroft swallowed, feeling ill himself. The idea of his brother getting so deeply involved with such a prominent group of terrorist terrified him enough to want to lock Sherlock in solitary confinement for the rest of his life, just to keep him safe.

"I take it from the fact that your brother looks like he might puke all over my carpet that he didn't know," Lestrade commented.

Mycroft simply shook his head.

"I managed to convince each leg of Moran's web to descend on London," Sherlock said, eyes brewing with darkness. "I knew exactly where each would be. I set out a stream of anonymous police calls."

"That was you?"

His brother held up a hand, silencing Lestrade.

"Why not just go to Mycroft?" John said. He looked completely unmoved by the whole story. "Isn't it his job to deal with that kind of thing?"

He stopped breathing as his brother's eyes fell on him, and Mycroft knew exactly what he was going to say.

"Because history would have repeated itself," Sherlock stated. "Because Mycroft doesn't know what to do with the power he has."

"So you called the _police_ to deal with the capturing of nearly a half a dozen globally wanted terrorist?" Lestrade said.

Mycroft couldn't help but to be humbled that Lestrade found the flaw in this plan.

"And yet the London police force is looking better than it has in years, isn't it?" Sherlock shot. "And you- the press is probably wondering where you're hiding. I'm surprised they haven't swarmed this place yet."

"I took care of it," Mycroft muttered. Sherlock rolled his eyes. "What he means is that the police have been left out of these conversations. The amount the amount of power, the amount of strength, the police have compared to these people is so miniscule that sending those men out there could have been a lethal mistake. No offense, Detective."

"None taken," Lestrade shrugged. "Sherlock, do you have any idea how suspicious is this going to look to the public?"

"Suspicious!" Sherlock snorted.

"This is the biggest news _in the world_ right now!" Mycroft roared.

"Good!" Sherlock exclaimed, glaring at him. "It should be!"

"This wasn't your place, Sherlock!"

"You're welcome, Mycroft!" Sherlock got to his feet, swaying slightly. John reached out to steady him, but Sherlock shrugged him off. "You're just angry because I did in two and a half years what you couldn't in your whole career! You're just angry because you can't take any of the credit!"

They were face to face now. His brother was shaking; Mycroft had to hold out a hand to steady him. Sherlock shrugged him off as well and nearly fell back at the effort. Mycroft caught his hand.

"I'm angry because my little brother has been going around the world, conspiring with some of the most dangerous terrorists this world has ever seen," he replied quietly, so quietly John and Lestrade were straining to hear.

"John, maybe we should-"

"Yeah," John breathed. "I need some air."

The two exited the flat, leaving the brothers glaring at each other. Somehow, with the adrenaline rush and the action of the past couple of days Mycroft had forgotten it had been nearly a year since he last laid eyes on his brother. He let out a sharp breath of air.

"You look older," Mycroft whispered. "You've aged…you're just so different."

Sherlock didn't argue.

"I didn't intend to go behind your back," Sherlock admitted. "I couldn't get you involved, it was too dangerous.

"No more dangerous than my brother rooming with criminals," Mycroft said. "Working with Moran? Sherlock, there are a number of crimes you could be charged with."

"_Charged with?"_

"Are you alright?" Mycroft asked suddenly.

Sherlock stopped, staring at him- confused.

"Yeah," Sherlock breathed.

"No, really," Mycroft said. "Sherlock, when I saw you in that bank, you weren't even yourself."

"I was acting!"

"I know the people you were talking to," Mycroft said. He studied his brother's eyes, examining every trace of a lie, every speck of pain, every ray of exhaustion. "I know what they're capable of. I know what Moran does, when he's angry. I can see how much you've changed."

"I'm fine, Mycroft," Sherlock said, placing a hand on his shoulder. "I promise."

He was lying. He could see it in his strained smile, in the darkness in his eyes, which shot away as soon as Mycroft met them. Still, he nodded.

"I don't know what to think, Sherlock," he admitted. "But Moran's dead and his web is all but dismantled. I want nothing more than to debrief you, find out exactly what happened and what you know. My superiors will certainly be asking questions. If they find out you were involved they will not only want to lock you up for the better part of the rest of your life for questioning, but I will no doubt lose my job."

Sherlock's eyes widened.

"I never wanted-"

He held up his hand.

"It's fine," he replied. "While your methods have remained…unorthodox…there's no doubt that you've done a good job."

Sherlock stared at him.

"What?"

Mycroft grimaced. He should have known better.

"What did you just say?" Sherlock repeated again, fighting to restrain laughter.

At that moment the door opened, and John and Lestrade entered.

"We thought we should make sure you two didn't kill each other," Lestrade admitted.

Instead of commenting, John crossed his arms and leaned against the far wall.

Yet his brother smiled at him, and from that pure, honest, smile things actually felt _normal_ for once.

"John, you should take a look at Mycroft," Sherlock said.

"I think you should all be in the bloody hospital," Lestrade mumbled. "But who listens to me anymore?"

"I'm fine, Sherlock," Mycroft insisted.

He had almost forgotten his own injuries, but at the reminder pain shot up his chest once more. His fingertips burned where dry blood caked them, and the bruises beneath his eyes had a dull ache to them.

"You were _tortured_, Mycroft."

"It was nothing," he lied.

He just needed to sit down…

"Maybe a glass of water, then?" Lestrade said. "Better yet, whiskey?"

"There are more important matters," Mycroft said, taking a seat in the armchair. The world immediately swayed with dizziness. He rested his head in his hand as he continued. "My superiors can't know Sherlock's involved with this anymore than the press can't know he's alive. Bringing you back to life is going to take more than an apology and press release. I think you should go into hiding."

He was shocked when Sherlock didn't argue.

"Are you sure you want to come back?" John stated quietly. Everyone looked at him. "You said it yourself. You could always just slip away again."

Sherlock walked over to John, standing only inches from him. They both looked _so_ different from when they first met. The carefree, enthusiastic, nature of their friendship was long gone. The _friendship_ was in complete shambles.

"You said you don't want anything to do with me," Sherlock said. "You shouldn't even be standing here, right now."

"I didn't mean-"

"You did, and you have every right to."

"Sherlock?" Lestrade asked carefully. He stepped up to them; Mycroft watched in admiration as the three addressed each other for the first time in years. "Can I just say…I forgive you."

The room fell silent.

"And…thank you," Lestrade added, so quietly it was hardly heard. "You gave up your life for us. Those men we took down, god they could have done some damage."

Lestrade placed a hand on his brother's shoulder as Sherlock stared at him, mouth agape and in shock. John stared between them, unsure how to respond.

"I…" John stammered. "I- Sherlock-"

"Don't-"

But before Sherlock could protest any further, John threw his arms around him. Mycroft smirked as John pulled his brother into a hug while Sherlock just stood in place, stunned. Lestrade glanced toward him, amused, and he nodded. John closed his eyes as tears overwhelmed him.

"I'm glad you're alive," he choked.

At last, Sherlock placed his arms around John and patted him on the back, accepting the embrace. When they broke apart they both looked emotionally drained.

"I'll go with you," John offered. Sherlock glanced toward Mycroft, who was too surprised to interject. John addressed him: "Do you have somewhere we can go? A safe house or something?"

"John, you don't have to-"

"No, it's fine," John said, waiving off Sherlock's' protest. "I want to."

"Your practice?" Sherlock asked.

Mycroft could tell by his brother's quickened pulse and the tremor that shook him that he secretly longed for this to be able to happen.

"It'll be fine," John said. "There are other doctors in London, right?"

He threw a forced smile to them all.

"Well, I'd love to go, but I have this to deal with," Lestrade said. He nodded toward Mycroft. "I'm sure we'll be talking. You three stay as long as you need."

He turned back to his brother and embraced him. Sherlock froze, too overwhelmed with all this emotion to respond.

"I meant it," Lestrade said, holding Sherlock in place as he stepped back. "Jesus Sherlock, you've been my best asset on the team for years. When this is all over with, when everything is settled, I'd love to have you back."

Sherlock nodded, looking ill once again.

"Thank you," he replied, his voice stiff with shock. "And I'm sorry- really."

"Don't," Lestrade said. He shook a finger at him. "I don't want to hear you say that."

Sherlock nodded again and looked away, clearly uncomfortable. Lestrade offered him a kind smile before departing.

"So," John said, looking to Mycroft. "Thought of somewhere?"

Mycroft grimaced.

"Sherlock, you'll have to go through a serious debriefing-"

"You've said that."

"But first you'll need to be kept safe," Mycroft continued. "John, I'm entrusting you with this."

John nodded.

"You need to heal, Sherlock," Mycroft said. "Truly heal, and then we can talk about bringing you back."

Sherlock gazed at him, still reeling from the shock of the sincerity everyone was offering him. Suddenly, Sherlock took a few strides forward, and Mycroft found himself face to face once more with his younger brother.

"Well, everyone seems to be doing this," Sherlock said; he swallowed, nervous. "And…I owe you."

"Sherlock-"

He was silenced when his brother wrapped his arms around him, actually_ embracing _him. Mycroft froze up, suddenly understanding Sherlock's conflict with emotions.

"I couldn't have done this without you," Sherlock whispered.

Mycroft snorted.

"You wouldn't have gotten into this without me," Mycroft replied.

Sherlock shook his head, and when they broke apart Mycroft caught him running his arm across his face.

"I'm sorry I had to leave you out," Sherlock said.

Mycroft nodded.

"I'm sorry you couldn't trust me."

Sherlock stopped, seemingly unsure if this were a compliment or another cheap shot. Mycroft placed a hand on his brother's shoulder, ignoring how limp and numb he felt.

"We'll talk when you get back," he promised.

"I'm not sure if that's something I should be looking forward to," Sherlock said, studying him.

Mycroft laughed.

Normalcy. He had never been so grateful for it. He glanced between the two men, and for the first time he could see the remains of their friendship.

"I'll have you two on a train to Cornwall by morning," he offered. "John, if he gets to be too much, just dial the number."

Sherlock looked between them, perplexed.

"Number?" He cried. "What number?"

Both he and John smirked.

"Good to have you back, Sherlock," Mycroft said, gathering his coat.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned back to John.

"Cornwall?" Sherlock asked him.

John shrugged.

"I was going to take my holiday in Australia," John admitted. "But Cornwall has its perks. It's very…" his voice trailed off as his eyes found Mycroft. "I don't get it either."

"You two get four weeks," Mycroft said as he headed toward the door.

"_Weeks?"_ Sherlock exclaimed.

Before he opened the door, Mycroft turned back to his brother. He almost enjoyed it, the confusion, the mistrust and uncertainty, on Sherlock's face right now. Having him in the same room, hell, the same part of the globe, was still surreal, but Mycroft hadn't been able to breathe this easily in months. It would be hard to let him go again.

"It's this or therapy," he offered.

Sherlock groaned.

"Oh great, I'm a therapist now?" John said.

He looked at the two one last time, wondering if he was doing the right thing. Two and a half years ago he was thrilled just to see Sherlock offer his trust, his friendship, to someone else. To see his brother give his life for someone- for these people- was extraordinary. He thought back to the days of Sherlock's rehab, to the nights he spent wide awake, wondering how his brother was doing on Lestrade's cases, and considered how everything was finally coming around full circle. He knew his brother would win respect from London, if not the world, for what he did. He would be worshipped.

And for that reason, Mycroft knew it had to be his priority to keep this quiet.

Sherlock turned to John once again, looking him in the eye.

"You don't have to do this," he stated quietly.

"No, maybe I should," John said. "I…I've had a rough couple of years, Sherlock. I want something better than this. I want…I want things to go back to normal."

"You want Cornwall?" Sherlock smirked, a sarcastic grin plastered across his face.

Sherlock held out his hand, and John looked between it and Mycroft. Mycroft couldn't help but to offer him a smile.

"Four weeks?" John said. Mycroft nodded, and John turned back to Sherlock. He shook his hand. "Cornwall it is."

* * *

><p>Author's Note: There it is. The end. I hope I've done the story justice. I could have dragged it on for longer...but I think 40 chapters is enough. I'm getting really excited about the sequel, and the ending offered some major hints as to which story it will be based off of. Like I've said before, the sequel will be from John's point-of-view, and it will be very stand alone. It will refer to this story in flashbacks. The squel will focus on the rebuilding of Sherlock and John's trust- not to mention their friendship- while they managed to find themselves on a horrific case in Cornwall. I'm not exactly sure when the sequel will be posted (hopefully within the next week!), but it will be called something along the lines of "The Devil Inside". I really got into coming up with the backstory for Mycroft, Sherlock, and Lestrade in this fic, and I'm considering writing a separate story about that too. I just have so many ideas!<p>

As I conclude what has been a long journey, I just want to say that I've truly had a blast writing this story. I really appreciate the fact that people are still reading, and it would absolutely mean the world to me if you let me know what you thought of the story and its ending- even if you have never reviewed it before. Feel free to ask me any questions. Thank you, each and every one of you, for reading! Thank you to everyone who has reviewed! All of your lovely comments and wonderful insights have truly helped with the writing of this story. It's been fun, and I'll miss it...but onto the next adventure!


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